


Rockfall

by aileenrose



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hate to Love, Human Castiel, Hunter Castiel, Hunters, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Road Trips, Season 3/4 AU, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-01
Updated: 2014-06-13
Packaged: 2018-01-21 11:28:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 37,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1548935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aileenrose/pseuds/aileenrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester's dealt with enough lately--averting a would-be Apocalypse, losing his brother to law school all over again, the dying job market for hunters.<br/>But getting paired with a grumpy, know-it-all asshole named Castiel Novak for his next hunt? Day one-- Dean's already sure one of them's not gonna get out of this alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Cave, A Cavern

It’s been a long, brutal week of work, but Dean’s Friday officially sets in around the time he removes his bloody machete from the neck of a vampire.

                “Well, don’t Nearly-Headless Nick him,” says Jerry, the hunter with him.

                Dean rolls his eyes and brings the machete down again, finishing the job.

                Giving them about half an hour to sweep the rest of the house, making sure there’s no one else in the nest hiding, they douse the abandoned place in gasoline, fan the flames, and even put in an anonymous 911 call as they’re driving away—that’s called being an upright citizen.

                Dean doesn’t _dislike_ Jerry, per say, but there are plenty of other hunters Ellen could have paired him up with for this job. If Dean is the alpha dog in their hunter community—him and Sam and an averted near-Apocalypse—he’s gonna take the title, shrug it off, and go back to shooting anything with fangs, black eyes, or ectoplasm. He doesn’t expect any special treatment, but he _would_ prefer going on a vampire hunt with someone who knows how to use a goddamn blade. They can’t all be Sam, but they could at least be halfway decent.

                Ellen’s preferred way of scheduling things is giving people mini-hunts between longer cases and stakeouts. Dean just spent two and a half weeks in rural Pennsylvania with his old friend Tamara, scouring an old movie theater for some dead chick with a knack for killing janitors. Fuckin’ research and headaches, trying to find out what remained of her, even after lighting up her grave, because she still didn’t fuck off like she was supposed to after that. So this vampire nest was supposed to be a cakewalk—quick, bloody, efficient. No research, just muscle and grit. It all would have been pretty cut-and-dry if Jerry hadn’t managed to misinterpret Dean’s silent signal to fan out and search the house for one to fumble his machete out of his pants, managing to cut the slightest tip of his pinky finger off in the process.

                “Do you wanna—” Dean says in the car, gesturing vaguely to Jerry’s hand—he has chosen to wrap not just his pinky, but his whole hand and arm in gauze, and is currently cradling it against his chest.

                Jerry shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he says, slowly, deliberately, giving Dean a significant look.

                That’s something else Dean has had to deal with. Hunters are a dying breed, and there’s one less every day—not actually from dying, though. More likely, retiring, as Sam did, although he doubts most hunters go straight back to Ivy League in the hopes of becoming a lawyer. No, ever since the would-be Apocalypse, it’s been made clear that there’s a finite amount of monster in the world. Hunters are no longer fighting a losing battle. As hunts get rarer and rarer on the ground, it becomes clear who still has other priorities—phasing out because they still have families, or their golden years, or other business to look forward to. That works for Dean and the others left. They might grouch that they’re another man short, but it’s one less man taking a job away from them.

                So there are the old-timers, like Dean, who just can’t get out of the hunting mindset. And there are new guys, like Jerry, jumping on the train after all the danger’s past, and trying to prove their place. _I may have somehow sliced my finger off, Dean, but I refuse to go to the hospital for it—badass!_

“Okay,” Dean says, since Jerry still is expecting something from him—approval, maybe? “That’s fine.”

                He honestly doesn’t know what’s worse. People like Jerry, losing their doughnuts when they meet Dean in the flesh, or other, seasoned hunters, with chips on their shoulders, acting like Dean’s strutting around with an ego the size of Kansas. Dean’s only ever tried to do his job, and do it well. He doesn’t need to be glorified for it, but he doesn’t need to be shit on about it, either.

                It’s a relief when they finally reach the Roadhouse the next morning. Jerry stumbles off towards the dumpy “Hunter Hotel” that got erected out back, but when he thinks Dean’s not looking, he turns around and walks towards the just-as-dumpy medical station. There’s an ex-hunter named Saul who was a doctor before his family was killed by werewolves; he tends to patch up what he can to help them all avoid the headache of hospitals and questions.  

                Dean pockets his keys and heads into the dim Roadhouse. The place is practically empty, something old and twangy playing on the jukebox. There are only a few older hunters in there now, all known to Dean, and they nod acknowledgement as he slides in next to them.

                “How’s _Jerry_?” One of the men snickers, showing full well that they all knew what Dean was getting into.

                “Needs to learn his way around a knife,” Dean grumbles.

                “Needs to learn how to put one foot in front of the other,” the other guy retorts.

                “Bad luck, Dean,” says the man sitting at the far end.  “Ellen says there’s some big shit going down in the Northwest, and you arrived back a day too early.”

                Dean shrugs. Keeping busy, life on the road, it’s nothing new. Not to mention he might have a chance to swing by and see Sammy while he’s out there—unless he’s paired with a real hard-ass jerk, there shouldn’t be a problem with taking a day or two to see his brother and fellow hunter hero on the way back.

                “Not because of the _shit_ ,” says Dale, the guy sitting on the end. “Because of the guy you’re paired with.”

                Dean’s not gonna lie, Ellen’s whole schtick of never letting anyone go off on a solo hunt can get pretty annoying, especially when he could do the job easier, and faster, on his own. But all the same, he gets her point. They’re in the waning days of monsters versus men. There’s no reason to get overconfident and get someone killed when they didn’t have to be. Not to mention Ellen runs the monopoly on hunting now— a hunter headquarters, of sorts (complete with a bar, a hotel, and a doctor), and access to a hunter network of advice and aid (people like  Bobby, or Ash, pretending to be federales, or hacking computers) as long as you agree to buddy-system your way through a monster mash.

                “Who’s that?” Dean says, craning his head around for Ellen. She isn’t out in the bar area, which means she must be in her small office, possibly with Ash.

                “Casti-el fuckin’ No-vak,” Dale sing-songs, and the other men shift in their seats and let out a few chuckles. Dean’s nonplussed—the hunter network is small, and it’s kind of a job requirement to be good with names, but he’s never heard of this guy before.

                “You’ve just been lucky to never cross paths with him,” Dale says darkly. “ He’s new here. They must have gotten sick of his shit in Canada and booted him out. Real pain in the ass, that one. Acts like Prince—don’t look at me, don’t directly address me,  that kind of thing. Thinks he’s the best hunter in the world.”

                “And?”

                “And he’s okay,” Dale admits sourly. “But he hasn’t exactly _endeared_ himself to folks around here. He went on a hunt with Harry Sackett last week—Harry Sackett got back four days ago.”

                “Just Harry?”

                “Yeah, just Harry, because he dumped Novak’s ass in the middle of nowhere outside of Bloomington. Novak had to walk back.”

                Now that Dean’s hearing this, he realizes that he _has_ heard about Castiel Novak. Not by name, but last time he stopped in to grab a beer and listen to chatter, some guys down the bar were laughing about an asshole hunter they kept hazing. It started when the hunter was so rude and arrogant that his partner just drove off in frustration—but now it’s become a competition, seeing the best way they could ditch him. Driving off while he used the bathroom at a gas station. Asking him to bury the body and hightailing it while the guy was knee-deep in grave dirt.

                “—claimed he swiped a deer while Novak was sleeping, so he wakes him up, pulls over, and asks him to see the damage. Kicked gravel up in his face and kept on gunnin’ down the road,” Dale’s recounting, as the other men laugh.

                Dale turns back to Dean. “Anyways, Sackett’s been here and gone, and Novak was supposed to go on a hunt with Cooper three days ago, but he hasn’t gotten back yet. So Ellen’s sticking _your_ sorry ass on a hunt with him.”

                Dean just shrugs, which isn’t the reaction any of them wanted from him. The closest leans forward and says,

                “Mark my words, you’ll be pulling a drive-and-dash on this sonuvabitch, too. Nasty temper. Smart mouth. Know it all. Sackett says Novak shot out his back window and his taillight.”

                “Wasn’t Sackett ditching him in Bloomington at the time?” Dean asks, smirking.

                “Alright, Mr. Hard to Impress,” the man says. He leans closer. “This should get your goat. Go ask Joanna Harvelle what she thinks about Novak. Because Ellen nearly gouged his eyes out after he dipped out on Jo when they went a-hunting for ghosties a few months ago.”

                That gets Dean’s attention—Ellen’s not the only one fiercely protective of the part-time bartender and novice huntress.

                “Why’d he do that?”

                “Refused to say. Some hunter schlub in New Mexico messed up his info and told Ellen it was ectoplasm; they get caught unawares when it turns out to be sulfur. They get jumped by four demons in Albuquerque, and Novak leaves her to snuff it. Luckily, Royce and Geordie were in the area and they helped fight her way out of there.”

                “Needless to say, the guy’s still in the doghouse with Ellen,” Dale chips in. “Then Jo gets mad that Ellen’s being too mother-hen, going ballistic on Novak when that’s _her_ job, so she walks out on Ellen and hasn’t been back in months. That’s strike two. Not that Ellen’s gonna force team-building and Boy Scouts on us, anyway, but she’s definitely looking the other way on Novak getting ditched in the wilderness every week. Probably thinks he deserves it.” Ellen’s office door squeaks open, and Dale looks up and then significantly in Dean’s direction.

                Dean knows he’s been hunting a lot lately—he can’t remember the last time he spent more than six hours at the Roadhouse—but he knows he’s talked to Jo since a few months ago. He’s a little put out that she didn’t tell him about her Southwest ghost hunt that almost went South—he’s also a lot pissed that the next hunting partner he has lined up is a coward and a selfish asshole. If he did it once, he’d do it again—no doubt, and next time Jo, or whoever else, wouldn’t be so lucky. Fuckin’ _Jerry_ wouldn’t even turn tail and ditch a partner in a life and death situation. That’s what partners were for—you both got out, or you both didn’t.

                “Well,” Dean says. “Maybe, with my luck, Novak will do us all a favor and snuff it on our next hunt.”

                The three bastards sitting in their seats laugh uncomfortably and are suddenly deeply interested in their beers. Dean looks up and sees a dusty, ragged man with an inscrutable expression on his unshaven face.

                “Dean Winchester,” the man says flatly. “I hear you’re my partner.”


	2. Primary

Ellen is all business; she barely even acknowledges Dean’s greeting when he enters her office.

                “Close the door,” she barks, and Dean stands to attention and turns to close it—only to find Castiel in his way, leveling him a narrow look as he sidesteps into the room and shuts the door himself.

                “Dean, Castiel,” Ellen says, gesturing between them. “You’re gonna be stuck with each other for the foreseeable future.”

                “We’ve met,” Castiel says shortly. Dean leans against the wall opposite him and looks him over coolly. Castiel certainly has the appearance of  a man who just hitchhiked a long distance—his shoes are falling apart, his hoodie is stained and dusty, and he’s sporting the darkly shadowed jaw of someone who hasn’t shaved in days. Dean’s mostly—bedgrudgingly—impressed with his impassive expression. No sign of weariness or frustration after such a long journey—really, nothing at all. Total blank face.

                He’d even been like that after seeking Dean out at the bar, nothing by way of expression or posture giving away whether he’d heard Dean’s comment. It made Dean already feel wrongfooted, which was ridiculous—this Castiel was the one in the wrong, ditching a novice hunter in the midst of a fight to save his own ass. Dean’s remark was probably pretty tame in the face of the ire Castiel was usually raising from other hunters. Skipping out on your partner always guaranteed less-than-pretty results.  Even so, the fact that he couldn’t get a good read on the guy—well. It would be nice to know if Castiel _had_ heard his comment, just so Dean could next start figuring out if he was one to hold grudges.

                “Good,” Ellen says. “No need to waste my breath. I’m sure the gossip girls out there at the bar have been filling you in, Dean. Nasty stuff happening out in Oregon.”

                “Not much,” Dean says. “Just that it’s a shitstorm. What’s up?”

                Ellen shrugs, leaning against her desk. “Typical unexplained disappearances. Nine hikers have gone missing from the Klamath Mountain trails in the last two years alone. One was eventually chalked up to wandering off the path and meeting a gruesome, natural end but still—that leaves another eight.”

                “Could be a—” Dean starts.

                “There’s more,” Ellen says. “I sent Buckle and Hardy out there, thinking they could handle it, weeks ago. Some people in the area have confirmed that they did go out into the mountains. Never came back; haven’t heard from them since.”

                “So they’re dead,” Castiel says.

                Ellen fixes him with a long, unimpressed look. “Maybe,” she finally says. “Or they’re out of range. Or they decided to take a couples retreat. It depends what’s actually out there. Anyways, it’s time to send in the big guns. I don’t know what to expect, so I’m sending the best.”

                Dean’s used to “the best” qualifying him and Sam, without a doubt. The Winchester duo, with a  resumé that put all others to shame.  Not some transient from Canada who’s managed to give himself a bad name to people who hunt monsters for a living. He gestures to the man of unknown abilities on the other side of the door frame. “The best, huh? Were you a Mountie in your younger years?”

                Castiel looks at him for a long moment, as if considering something. Finally,

                “No,” he says, with careful enunciation, like Dean is hard of hearing.

                Ellen lets out a snort. “Wait ‘til you see him with a blade in his hand, Dean. Makes up for all the other bullshit.”

                Dean looks back and forth between them, not sure how to read the situation. By all accounts Ellen hates Castiel’s guts, and she’s not normally one to hide her feelings. In the room with them, though, he’s sensing a different kind of tension—a respectful dislike, maybe, from Ellen. Her version of professionalism.  Castiel is looking down at his hand, rubbing a smudge off his finger, completely unfazed.

                “You boys might want to hit the road,” she continues. “I already heard that the Patel sisters found a vamp nest outside of Saint George, Utah and wanted some help before moving in, and you’re the only guys I know who will be even remotely in the East. At least that should be a quick and easy one, right?”

                “Fine,” Castiel says. He straightens up and looks at Dean. “Aren’t you ready?”

                “Uh,” Dean says. The words are innocuous, but the tone of voice makes Castiel sound disapproving, vaguely scolding, like Dean’s been fucking around this whole time. “Yeah, but you’re _not_ getting into my car like that.”

                They all look down at Castiel’s road-dirtied clothes. “Like what?” Castiel says, suspicious.

                “Like you went on a week-long bender in a garbage dump. Come on, dude. Not in my car.”

                Castiel goes to reach for the doorknob, leveling Dean with a glare. He has to admit, it’s effective, if only because his eyes seem practically luminescent in his dusty, sun-darkened face.

                “Nothing like personal hygiene,” Dean calls after him. “Lovely chat, see you soon, partner—”

                He turns to Ellen after shutting the door.

                “Not fighting your decision, Ellen, but I’ve already heard some less-than-savory things about him. Can I trust him?”

                She shrugs. “Come on, Dean. These are temporary partners. Have you truly trusted anyone since Sam?”

                Which, of course, is a stupid question. Not many hunters choose to have permanent partners anymore. That requires trusting someone with your life, with others’ lives, even when death has you by the throat and you still have complete, irresolute faith that your partner will come through for you. He and Sam had that—a bond of blood and brotherhood, a complete awareness of each other.

                And then Sam managed to surprise him, gadding off to Berkeley after getting Ash to clean-sweep his records and apartment-hunting online in the hours when Dean was normally out at a bar, drowning the day away. Sam managed to surprise _him_ , when Dean thought they understood each other implicitly.

                So these days, yeah, permanent partners are uncommon. Some stick together out of blood—like the Patel sisters—or by other bonds—like a married couple he knows, the Sinclairs, who take care of all the hunts in Florida—but besides that, it’s just an endless repetition of shitty blind dates. No one these days is gonna lay their lives down for you, not even for Dean Winchester. It’s not a complaint, just a fact.

                The person he thought he could trust didn’t want that burden, is studying away in California right now like the last few years never happened.       

                “Look, I can handle the Jerry’s of the world. Clear eyes, full hearts, shitty aim. But this guy sounds like a loose cannon, willing to mark up his partner as another casualty. I just want to know.”

                “Trust him with his blade, not with your life,” Ellen says. She doesn’t’ seem particularly interested in having the conversation—another reason why Dean thinks she’s well aware of Castiel’s shortcomings as a partner, but is going through with it anyways.

                Which makes Dean mad. He’s so tired of having to look out for everyone else, and look over his shoulder, too.

                “How’s Jo?” He says loudly, already knowing the answer.  Ellen flinches back, mouth tightening, and gives Dean a look of warning.

                If Sam were here, Dean never would have gotten away with such a blatantly shitty remark. His brother would have shut him down way before he had a chance to say something so caustic to Ellen. If his brother were here, there’d be no reason to have this conversation in the first place—he and Sam would already be halfway across Nebraska, windows cranked open, radio blasting.

                But Sam isn’t here, as Dean should have known but didn’t, and he’s already bitter enough that Castiel isn’t the only person around who knows how to cut someone deep.

**

                Dean gets sidetracked in the bar—Dale and co. gesture him over covertly, telling him he can call them if he has any problems with Castiel—and it takes him a while to disentangle himself.

                It’s a little disconcerting how eager some of these hunters are to give Castiel an “American homecoming”---Castiel certainly isn’t the first with a surly expression and an off-putting personality. But, then again, Dean hasn’t had to actually work the guy yet. Maybe all the stories are true and more.

                Castiel, for his part, is already frowning by the passenger door, his hair still damp, his shirt and jeans wrinkled but clean. Only Dean’s practiced eyes can make out the telltale bulges of weaponry beneath his leather jacket, or an ankle holster concealed by his jeans.

                “That all?” Dean says, gesturing to the deflated backpack that Castiel has swung over one shoulder.

                “Yes,” Cas says. He pulls on the locked handle of the door pointedly, releasing it with a snap.

                Dean rolls his eyes but unlocks the car all the same, reaching across the seats to push open Castiel’s door. The other man slides in, putting his backpack carefully between his feet, and buckles his seatbelt.

                Then he looks up at Dean expectantly. “Well?”

                Fair point. Dean doesn’t know why he hasn’t started the car yet. He supposes it could have something to do with Castiel’s hair, which s sticking up in seven different directions from a likely harried attempt at drying it. Or maybe it’s the fact that, this close, he can see that the annoyed jut of his chin only serves to emphasize the perfect line of his jaw, all hard edges to offset ridiculously pillowy, full lips.

                Deqn clears his throat and twists the keys in the ignition. He’s had a few tasteful rolls in the hay in his day—one of the only benefits of no longer having Sam around—and a select few have been with fellow hunters. There’s something to be said for two bloodied, wrecked partners having a splendid, frenzied fuck before sending each other off into the ether, never to be seen again. You got laid, and you saved the world. It’s not a bad combination.

                But—Dean really shouldn’t be letting his thoughts go in that direction right now. He’s gonna be stuck with this guy for weeks. Better not make it even more unbearable.

                “So,” Dean says, punching on the radio and turning the volume low. “Looks like we got out work cut out for us. You ever been to Utah?”

                “No.”

                “Well, nothing like tourist traps to get you acquainted with the good old land of the free. Hey, while we’re down there, the Grand Canyon is only a few—”            

                Castiel twists in his seat, incredulous. “We’re on a _hunt_ , Dean. Not a vacation. I have no interest in prolonging it to see some _Grand Canyon—”_

                “Whoa,” Dean says. He can still feel Castiel’s gaze burning into the side of his face. “I get it—you’re not here to make friends, you’re here to win. Forget I said anything.”

                Stupid. That would be the kind of thing he and Sam would do, anyway—one breath of relaxation, of wonder, letting themselves be _just_ tourists before hitting the road again. The man with the stick up his ass in the passenger seat is the least likely person to enjoy something like that.

                He hears papers shuffling and looks over to see Cas pawing through the glove compartment, pulling out a road atlas.

                “Sure, help yourself,” Dean says. He doesn’t know whether to be annoyed or amused by Castiel’s unapologetic rudeness from the get-go. He’s leaning towards the former. Castiel ignores him and thumbs through the atlas.

                “You’ll want to take 80 to 76, and then cut over to—”

                “Yeah, _I’ve_ been to Utah before,” Dean says. “You can put the road map away. I’ve got it.”

                But maybe because he thinks Dean might still try to somehow slip in a trip to Arizona, or  maybe because this fucker just can’t relinquish control, even when he’s not in the driver’s seat, Castiel stubbornly leaves the atlas spread open on his lap, tracing his fingers over it.

                Dean looks at the atlas, back at the road, and then back to Castiel.

                “So, the Klamath Mountain thing. It could be a pack of weres, or maybe a wen—”

                “Of _course_ it’s a wendigo,” Castiel snorts. “I thought that was obvious.”

                Dean can feel his frustration mounting. No wonder people literally boot him to the curb when a case is over. Dean’s five minutes into this car ride and he’s already annoyed by the attitude.

                Dean can’t help but wonder if this some sort of front, the way that other, older hunters will try to undermine Dean’s lead on a case—maybe Castiel is jealous that “Winchester” means something on this turf, and “Novak” doesn’t . Who knows.

                “Oh, is it?” Dean says. He’s tightening his fingers around the wheel. “Because eight hikers in two years seems awfully accelerated—”

                “Maybe so, but none of the other alternatives fit. A pack of weres wouldn’t be able to survive on the random hiker’s heart alone; and if they were eating animal hearts with the occasional human treat, they would know better than to kill eight humans in two years. They wouldn’t want to draw attention to themselves in that way.”

                “And a wendigo would?”

                “A wendigo is smarter, faster, and easier to hide than a pack of weres. As for the number of hikers—well, _you_ and your brother stopped the Apocalypse. You know better than me that the monsters we hunt are growing desperate as their time comes to a close.”

                Dean grits out a laugh. “So you know about me, then?” Definitely a know-it-all hunter with a chip on his shoulder.

                Castiel turns back to his atlas, his forehead wrinkling. “You’re not just a legacy in America, Dean,” he says. He doesn’t sound resentful, but—envious, maybe? Envy tinged with something else. His voice is softer, less aggressive than before. “People the world over—the people that matter, anyway—know the Winchester name.” He opens his mouth like he’s gonna say something else, and then closes it, shaking his head. The only sound in the car is the soft strains of music from the radio.

                Dean doesn’t know what to say. It’s not like he and Sam understood, or knew what was going to happen. They were desperately trying to survive day by day, tracking down Lilith, preventing seals from breaking, their backs against the wall. The hunter community wasn’t as singular as it was, now, either—no Ellen at the helm, no backups to take Sam and Dean’s place, just for one fucking day.

                No, they were just doing their jobs, heads down in the miserable trenches, and suddenly it was over, they had won—and with that victory they were suddenly famous, suddenly heroes, suddenly _worth_ something to this group of grungy world-weary hunters.

                It’s not like Dean knew, either, that the most important thing he’d ever done would also ultimately have consequences for himself. Thanks to him, there’s a limited number of monster in the world. Give Dean another two, three years max—and then he’s expected to move on with his life, to find a normal civilian job. The prospect of a long, boring life of tax returns and mortgages seemed a little daunting to someone who thought he’d die quick, bloody and heroic before 35.

                “Well,” Dean says. “Fine. You know all about me. Mind evening out the playing field? What brought you here, anyways?”

                “Unfinished business,” Castiel says shortly. He pulls a ridiculous, neon green travel pillow from his backpack, fluffing it with infinite care. It’s the least hostile thing Dean’s seen him do this entire time. “I’m going to sleep. Don’t wake me unless you want me to drive a turn.”

                “Aye, aye,” Dean says, casting him a sidelong glance. “Anything else?”

                Castiel ignores his snarky tone.

                “Yes. Turn down that noise,” he says, pointing an incriminating finger at the radio, which is now softly blaring Back in Black.

                Castiel turns his back on Dean, pushing the travel pillow against the seat and the window and settling in. Dean glares at his back.

                Maybe he will go to the Grand Canyon after all, if only to shove Castiel off the edge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These darlings are so happy to be on a road trip together!  
> Fun fact-- until today I thought those little squares next to all the stories were, like, very decorative Punnett squares or something. Today I realized they TELL you things about the story you'll be reading. fascinating.   
> Thank you so much to everyone who's already reading and reviewing and kudoing! You all rock.   
> This has been a busy week but I'm planning on longer chapters after this. So much juiciness to fit within a ten chapter story. 
> 
> Next chapter: a hunt with the Patel sisters, a mean-spirited trip to the bar, a talk about vices.   
> Next, next chapter- Cas has an idea as to how he and Dean can get along.


	3. Glacier

 It takes them two days to get to Saint George.

                Dean drives as much as he’s able, but he never did get to sleep, not even for an hour, after the hunt with Jerry. If these were the Old Days—the ones with Sam, the only person he really trusted, in the passenger seat—he could have pulled over at some point, switched places, and slept against the window while Sam probably twiddled the radio stations to some soft jazz or something.

                But these aren’t the Old Days, so after powering through ten hours driving, he finally finds a cheap roadside motel and shakes awake the sleeping man next to him.

                Castiel, for his part, has completely ignored the change of scenery as they’ve driven. Dean can’t remember the last time he’s slept for ten hours straight, but Castiel managed—no sweat. He was a deep sleeper, too, not even noticing when Dean stealthily turned up the volume, mile by mile. Dean remembered again that the guy mostly walked all the way back to the Roadhouse after being ditched at the roadside, and feels the slightest bit more generous. Let the guy sleep—fine. Saves him from the awkward, moody conversations. But he draws the line at letting this stranger drive his beloved Impala.

                Strangely enough, Castiel is grumpy when he’s waken from his ten hour doze, even while Dean checks them in and Castiel glares down the night clerk like the man’s done him a personal affront, even when they’re ensconced in their room where Castiel can resume his sleeping on an actual mattress with actual, non-green, human-sized pillows.

                Dean falls asleep the moment that he’s on the bed—he doesn’t even take the time to remove his shoes.

                The alarm goes off at six, giving Dean his requisite four hours. In the dim light of the room, he can see Castiel twisted up on his bed. There’s a stack of fluffy pillows dumped carelessly off the bed—Dean can see the damned green monstrosity under Castiel’s head, even from here. He snorts, jostles the man’s foot, and walks purposefully into the bathroom.

                Ten minutes later, after a refreshingly scorching shower, he exits the bathroom in a cloud of steam and a towel wrapped around his waist.

                The room is now bathed with light; his temporary partner had turned on the lamp. Castiel is leaning forward on the edge of the bed, pulling his socks on with slow, half-lucid movements. When he looks up at Dean, his movement falters, his eyes growing a little wider. He stares a moment too long, completely unabashed, before catching himself.

                “And a good morning to you, too,” Dean says, a smile growing. It’s funny to see Castiel a little embarrassed, put out of his element. It’s even funnier to see Castiel scowling off to the side, the tips of his ears red. Dean purposely saunters by, close enough to make the other man uncomfortable. After rummaging around in his duffel, he drops his towel without pretense, languidly pulling on a pair of briefs. He’s not doing it for show, not posturing, but he’s completely aware of the man on the other bed, half turned away but tellingly not moving, not returning to the task of putting his socks on. He has an audience.

                So Dean isn’t the only one attracted to the other in this scenario. It’s good to know, even though he’s sure nothing will come of it. The past few times he’s had sex with another hunter, it came with the tacit understanding of more than just mutual attraction—respect, adrenaline, casual intimacy. There were no strings, no hurt feelings, just the acknowledged pleasure and respite that sex could bring. Somehow, Dean doubts that the irritable man regarding his socks with a life-or-death studiousness would fit the bill that well. No, it would probably just add extra awkwardness all around.

                That still doesn’t stop Dean from turning around, catching Castiel’s eye for a second before the man hastily averts his gaze, and saying, “Like what you see, eh?”

                Castiel glowers at his shoes.

                “Hey, Canadian-speak—get it? ‘Eh?’”

                Castiel doesn’t talk to him for the next eight hours.

                Somewhere about an hour from Saint George, the radio suddenly fuzzes out, replaced by soft static. Dean messes with the dial for a little bit, before giving up and looking over at the man next to him. He’s been studying a book for the last few hours—an old book, the binding creased and discolored, and any title it had has been worn away by age.

                “Whatcha reading?” Dean says.

                Castiel doesn’t look up from the page. “A book of mine.”

                “What kind of book?” Dean says brightly.

Castiel glares at him over the edge of his book, looking at Dean’s friendly face with suspicion, but puts it down and says stiffly, “It’s a book on demon genealogy. I’m trying to memorize it.”

                Dean glances at the book again, now thoughtful. Bobby’s got hundreds, maybe thousands, of books in Sioux Falls. Dean’s only ever actively looked at the ones that had anything pertinent to do with a case. He wonders if even Bobby has a book like that.

                “Demons don’t exactly have family trees,” Dean remarks.

                “I know  _that_ ,” Castiel says. “There’s more to it. Demons were human once too, you know. Some characteristics hold over. They create family ties, friendships, rivalries—they’re ultimately selfish, and evil, and will turn against each other too many times to mention in just a single century. But the ties remain, and can be used to categorize them.”

                “I remember a demon named Meg,” Dean says slowly. “She claimed another demon as her, well, father.” Azazel. Just the remembrance of the him sends a cold spike of fury down his spine, even though he knows justice has been done.

                “Yes,” Castiel says, distantly, and when Dean looks over he sees the man poring over a page again. “It’s not as unusual as some hunters would think. Knowing the alliances and rivalries between demons has been—helpful.”

                Castiel abruptly shuts up, setting his shoulders and turning the page. Dean looks again at the book, the faded writing he can just make out.

                “So that’s, what? Extra credit work?”

                “No.”

                Dean chooses not to pry. Every hunter has that background, that secretive, touchy past—Dean and Sam weren’t given the luxury of privacy, everyone eventually knew of their grudge match against the demon who killed their mother and drew their father into obsession. It was common knowledge, something that Castiel probably already knew.

                Other hunters, though, are able to keep those sad, bloody pasts a secret. It isn’t exactly a stretch of Dean’s imagination to know that Castiel might be the kind to not want to mention it. “Unfinished business”—that was what the hunter had said earlier when Dean asked what brought him to America. That would have to be good enough for Dean. Oh, well, it wasn’t like he needed to know everything about Castiel, the secret past and hidden hopes and fears and failures. They’d be going their separate ways in two week, tops.

                Still, after another few minutes of silence, Dean again tries to engage the sullen man silently mouthing names to himself.

                “So, that’s seriously all you do in your free time?”

                Castiel lowers the book again, this time with a stormy expression. “Excuse me?”              

                “Anything else you do for fun? Likes, dislikes, vices? Come on, man, your hobbies have to be more than killing and  _reading_.”

                “Vices?” The hunter repeats, like it’s a strange, foreign word.

                “Yeah, you know—can’t live with them, can’t live without them. You might hate them, but you can’t quit them.”

                Castiel just gives him a furrowed, nonplussed expression, although Dean can’t quite take that as confusion—maybe just an unwillingness to share.

                “Mine, for instance,” Dean plows on. “Drinking and sex. All that  _immoral_  stuff, you know. Might as well add in pie—that’s not a healthy relationship, by any definition.”

                Castiel shakes his head. “None of those. I don’t like pie.”

                “Well, then, you haven’t had good pie,” Dean says, affronted. And come on— _every_ hunter’s vices are drinking and sex. It’s page one of the rulebook.”

                “Not me,” Castiel says. “I don’t like things that make me…vulnerable, or not in control. I don’t see what’s pleasurable about them.”

                Dean gapes for a moment before he can school his expression back into neutrality. No point in trying to antagonize the guy. Besides, he already knows Castiel doesn’t like not being in control. The atlas still spread across his lap like a blanket is already proof enough.

                He could go on a small litany to Castiel, describing all the transcendent  joys of sex, even when the partners vary from night to night, when they leave and you don’t even remember each others’ names. He can describe the sweet sting of whiskey down his throat, relishing in the feeling,  the oncoming removal, even when he knows he’ll be nursing a headache the next morning.

                He won’t. To be honest, he doesn’t even know why he was trying in the first place. Castiel has made it pretty clear how he wants their short partnership to work.

                “Maybe try to live a little, man,” he mutters, flipping on his blinker as he finally enters the outer limits of Saint Geoge. Castiel says nothing for  a long moment, and then goes back to his reading.

**

                The Patel sisters are sitting roadside in the abandoned factory district, leaning against the bumper of their long station wagon. When Dean’s headlights flash over them, he can see them slithering off the car, hands going to their hips, probably to their hidden weapons.

                He exits the car, smiling in the half-dark, and sees them relax. He’s only met them once, at the Roadhouse, but he liked their bravery and their clear-eyed view of the world, so different from the jaded, older hunters who he was so used to (who he knew he was becoming, himself).

                “Nisha, Salena, this is my partner, Castiel,” he says, gesturing between them. Castiel nods his head in greeting—the most polite form of introduction that he probably has, Dean thinks.

                “Been waiting for you long enough,” Nisha says, but she sounds good-natured. From what Dean remembers Nisha is the elder, an inch or two taller than her sister, with long dark hair as smooth and sleek as an oil spill. Salena stands just behind her, her hair in a spiky pixie cut. She’s adjusting a strap around her thigh; a machete as long as her forearm is shoved into the crude sheath there.

                “It’s a long drive from Nebraska,” Dean says. “So, what’s up? Ellen was short with the details.”

                “We tracked a vampire here who’s been targeting young girls traveling on their own,” Nisha says. “He’s a truckdriver, so it’s easy for him to transport them here as unwilling blood dolls. One girl in Salt Lake resisted so he cut her up pretty bad, left her to die. She was able to tell us what she knew before…”

                She trailed off. Dean waited out the silence, patient. Rumor had it that sisters’ parents had been killed when Nisha and Salena were very young—abducted by a nest, vampires smart enough to realize that two immigrants going missing in a big city wouldn’t be enough to arouse any suspicion or police intervention. Salena puts her hand on Nisha’s shoulder, briefly, and then goes back to preparing her weapons.

                Nisha shakes her head. “We called in an anonymous tip and a police roadblock took out the trucker. The girls were saved and we took care of the vamp while he was still in holding. Now, though—” she waves back at the seemingly abandoned factory behind her. “These poor monsters have been waiting for some blood for four days now. They sent out one scout and we took care of her, too.”

                “So you’ve got them pinned down and hungry,” Dean says. “Sounds like fun. I’m ready when you are.”

                “We’ve  _been_ ready, Boy Scout,” Salena says, coming to her sister’s shoulder and smirking at Dean. Seeing the two of them, shoulder to shoulder, one a few inches taller than the other, he feels something like jealousy pass through him. The familiarity, the comfort, the easy way they moved around each other, made space for each other. Of course, of  _course,_ it reminds him of—

                “Are you planning on going in there without any weapons?” Castiel says. Dean grits his teeth, but the sisters seem to find the other hunter amusing.

                “Good point,” Nisha says. “Unless you have some new powers I haven’t heard about. Blades that come from your hands, maybe?”

                “Wolverine’s been trying to keep his identity a secret,” Salena says.

                “Ha-ha,” Dean says pointedly. He goes around to the back of the Impala and pops the trunk. He can hear the sisters saying something to Castiel, laughing, but as he grabs his favorite machete, he can’t make out the low, short rumble of Castiel’s reply. Whatever it was, it can’t have been too bad, because the sisters are still smiling when he comes back around.

                The mood turns more serious; they walk together in a line towards the grimy, two-story factory that the Patels have discovered to be the vampire nest. Dean, next to Salena, sees a strange weapon in her hand—he can make out two wooden, rounded handles bundled together.

                He nudges her. “Planning on jump roping around them?”

                She glances down at her fist, then up at him. Her smile is wide, almost feral. “You’ll see,” she says happily.

                No one stops their progress towards the factory in the nighttime gloom. Dean imagines them cooped up there, like bunnies in a burrow, not knowing what happened to their victims en route, or the scout they sent out. The thought satisfies him.

                Castiel proves more than efficient at picking the rusty iron door; it swing open almost soundlessly. Inside, a vast drafty room, smelling dank and old, with rotting wooden crates piled up around the edges. Dean points out to the others a cage set against the wall, its floor lined with blankets. It’s empty; no more humans to feed off of. The detritus isn’t enough for anyone to hide behind, and as they make their way across the room soundlessly, still no one appears.

                “We pulled the floor plans a few days ago,” Nisha whispers. She pulls a rolled-up sketch from inside her shirt. “If they’re not up in arms here, they’ll be holed up in the offices to the South.”

                She points towards the far wall. There, again, the lock is picked, and they’re inside a darkened hallway, with closed doors lining both sides. The Patel sisters slink past them, take up stance on either side of the door at the end of the hall, a faded EXIT sign dangling above their heads.

                Nisha nods at Dean, so he slams the butt of his machete against the wall, loud enough to echo.

                “Come out, come out,” Dean yells. “Where’s that famous vampire hospitality?”

                As if they were waiting for a cue, a door on the side of the hall springs open, a burly vampire charging out of it. Almost simultaneously, the door at the end of the hall flies open, too—Salena throws a handle across the doorway to Nisha, and they pull the ends taut between them, the thin metal wire singing ominously in the air.

                As Dean watches, two vampires charge through the door and are immediately decapitated by the wire, their headless bodies stumbling forward a few steps with momentum before dropping to the floor.

                Meanwhile, Castiel is fending off the large vampire with a brutal grace that makes Ellen’s comment “see him with a blade in his hand” seem like a vast understatement. The hunter swings the blade like it’s an extension of his arm; even as Dean watches, Castiel boxes the vampire against the wall, and his knife seems to arc out like a conductor’s baton—the next second, the vampire’s head rolls to the floor.

                Dean realizes he’s been staring, and he shoulders open the office door closest to him, and charges inside, checking the corners. A vampire leaps from behind the door, his teeth bared, and Dean sweeps the man’s legs out from underneath him before bringing his blade down on his neck.

                No one else in the room. Dean turns back to the doorway to see another vampire filling the frame—before he can even bring his arm up to block, the vampire’s head tilts to the side, neck neatly diced. Castiel gives him a brief look—a spray of blood across one cheek—and then he’s gone, back to the fray.

                Outside, Nisha’s down on one knee, firing what must be arrows tipped with dead man’s blood at close range—Salena’s in the act of swinging her machete down towards a downed, drugged vampire when the office door behind her suddenly swings open and she’s dragged backwards into it.

                “Salena!” Nisha cries, enraged, starting forward a step.

                A large, vicious-looking vamp has Salena by her short hair, pulling her head back even as she futilely struggles, a blade held against her bare neck.

                “Drop your weapons,” the man snarls, “Or the next person without a head will be Tinkerbell here.”

                Her sister, shaking in fury, drops her bow. At the vampire’s raised brow, she pulls a knife from her belt and drops that, too. She turns to look at the two other hunters.

                “Please,” she says. “Do as he asks.”

                Dean slowly lowers his machete; he hears Castiel’s blade thump to the ground behind him.

                “Good,” the man said. “Good. Now, let’s talk options.”

                “Options?” Nisha snarls. “You have an option—let my sister go, and we’ll make it a quick death.”

                “Somehow, I’m not inclined to choose that option,” the man says. “And let’s remember, I’m not outnumbered for long.” He looks pointedly at some of the vampires still sprawled across the floor, stunned by the dead man’s blood. “So this is a fair fight. Fair trade.”

                Castiel shifts behind Dean.

                “Fine,” Nisha says. “Give me back my sister, and you  _and_  your incapacitated friends here can survive.”

                The man grins, showing his pointed teeth, and suddenly brings the blade closer. Salena whimpers as the sharp edge pricks her throat, drawing a thin line of blood.

                “Well, you see, we have a different definition of  _fair._ See, you killed my delivery boy, and my scout,  _and_ at least six of my brethren here today. Sounds like the numbers are a little skewed to me.”

                “You kill her,” Dean says, “and you lose your one lifeline. Don’t be stupid.”

                “Ah, Dean Winchester,” the vampire says. He twirls his knife in Dean’s direction, a mocking gesture of deference. “I heard that the smart one skipped town on you. Allow me to explain, I have no intention of killing your friend here.”

                “Fine,” Dean grits out. “Then what do you want?”

                “Like I said, to even the odds,” the vampire says. He gives the humans a warning look before he leans forward and laves his tongue over the slit of blood welling up on Salena’s throat. Nisha has to look away.

                The man draws away, smacking his lips. “No, I’m not going to kill her. I’m going to turn her.”

                Nisha gets forward one step before Dean grabs her arm tightly, hauling her backwards.

                “No!” Salena says. “Stay back, Nisha, please!”

                “We’re not leaving here without her sister,” Dean says. “End of story.”

                The vampire laughs. “Who said anything about you leaving, either?” He looks to the side again, and to Dean’s horror, he can see a few vampires on the floor subtly stirring, their hands twitching on the carpet. This vampire was smart enough, trying to stall until his backup arrived.

                “Yes, Dean, you see, we  _monsters_  have taken offense to you and your brother prematurely ending the Monster Ball. There were already few enough of us, as is, and you’re trying to make us go extinct…did you expect us to be happy about that?”

                “You must  _really_ be out of touch,” Dean says. He’s sweating, wishing he had a blade in his hand, and he can hear Castiel moving slightly, impatient, behind him.  “You can’t turn people into vamps anymore, thanks to yours truly. It’s no longer possible.”

                “Hmm,” the man says, lowering his mouth again to Salena’s neck, running his lips back and forth while she closes her eyes, grimacing. “Is that so? Well, I’ll certainly try my  _hardest_  to prove you wrong.”

                He raises his head, smirking, and then a knife suddenly sprouts out of his eye like some quickly-flowering seed. Dean gapes.

                Nisha’s reaction is instantaneous. She’s down on her knee, stringing her bow, and there’s an arrow in the meat of the vampire’s shoulder as Salena twists away. The man’s face contorts as he drops to the ground, the knife falling from nerveless fingers.

                Dean turns to Castiel, whose arm is still outstretched from throwing the blade, and back to the doorway, where Nisha is stalking forward, intent.

                “Give us a few minutes,” she says tightly, over her shoulder, not even looking at Dean and Castiel. They hear a slight squelching sound—Salena, retrieving the thrown knife—then the door is closed, then silence.

**

                Hours later, Dean finds himself at a bar with the Patel sisters, getting happily drunk.

                Salena has a thin bandage wrapped around her throat like a ribbon, besides that, she is unharmed. Dean drinks until he doesn’t notice the concern, the sisterly affection, that he sees as Nisha sits close at her sister’s side, like the proximity alone can soothe away the day’s events.

                “So where’s Tall, Dark and Prickly these days?” Salena asks.

                Dean shrugs. “At the motel where I left him, as far as I know.”

                Not that he’s ever been on good terms with Castiel, the whole two and a half days he’s known him, but they parted awkwardly.

                There was the fact, first, that they were not friends, that Castiel had a problem being civil, and Dean had no interest in inviting the other man for a relaxing night out when the man was not relaxing.

                There was the fact that Castiel didn’t show any interest, anyways, barely looking up from shrugging out of his blood-stained shirt as Dean stammered out a half-hearted invitation to relax  at the bar down the road.

                But there was mostly the fact that they had fought, again, in the car on the way to the motel. Dean had mentioned something about how he had only killed one vampire—off-hand, really, just still pumped up on adrenaline and making conversation. But the way Castiel clammed up and turned away had made it apparent that the one kill had not been a result of happenstance.

                “Were you…were you purposefully taking on my kills?” He had said, disbelieving.

                “No,” Castiel had said, verbose as ever.

                “Well what was that about, then? You’re not my bodyguard—I’m a grown man, I can take care of myself!”

                “So what if I killed more vampires than you?” Castiel said. “The job’s done, we all got out. What’s the problem?”

                “The problem is—is—I’m  _Dean Winchester_ , okay? I think it’s suitably clear I can take care of myself, for fuck’s sake!”

                “I know who you are,” Castiel had hissed.

                Dean hadn’t even been trying to sound self-important, or full of himself. It was more just that—his job was more shit than fun, most of the time, but he had at least earned the distinction of being one of the most deadly hunters, alive or dead. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of Castiel spearing every vampire for himself, like he thought Dean couldn’t handle it.

                Back in the bar, he smiles at the Patel sisters. “I don’t think Castiel could handle coming,” he tells them. “He’s never been drunk.”

                ‘The sisters both give him twin mischievous grins.

                “That should probably be rectified,” NIsha says.

                Dean takes a swig of his beer. “Probably should, but unfortunately—”

                “Hello, Dean,” a gravelly voice says.

                He cranes his neck and sees Castiel standing over his shoulder, surveying them all with his usual concerned, furrowed eyebrows.

                “How’d you get here?” Dean demands.

                “I’m very fond of walking,” Castiel says stiffly. “I have decided that I would like to have a relaxing night, as well.”

                He sits down at the chair across from Nisha solemnly, formally, like a defendant would sit in court.  They all look at each other for a few moments.

                “Would you like a drink, Castiel?” Nisha says.

                Castiel purses his lips, and then shakes his head. “No, thank you.”

                “You know, you don’t have to drink to get drunk,” Salena points out, although her sidelong glance at her sister says otherwise. “Just enough to take the edge off. Relax, like you said.”

                Castiel looks over at Dean, suddenly, his look questioning, wondering what Dean thinks. Dean decides to take a particularly large drink, playing neutral.

                “Okay,” Castiel says. “Just one drink, then.”

                It’s pretty amazing how the Patel sisters are able to wheedle him into chugging an Irish Car Bomb. Even more impressive is how they subtly rotate their drinks around—asking Castiel to just finish off the remains of their beers, getting new ones, having him finish off those, too. The dregs of their beers, paired with the Car Bomb, have Castiel loosened up and slurring within the next twenty minutes.

                Nisha and Salena seem to be enjoying Castiel’s company enough, prodding him about his knowledge of Canadian stars—Ryan Gosling, Justin Bieber—and laughing when he doesn’t know who they are. Dean’s annoyed that all his own drinking isn’t washing away the pit of guilt in his stomach.

                What Nisha and Salena and their harmless pranking don’t know is what Castiel told him in the car—that he never drank, didn’t want to, because he hated the feeling of being out of control or vulnerable. For a man of small words, like Castiel, that admission had been a huge one, a small confession. So even though Dean enjoys Castiel’s drooping eyes  and measured, serious responses to the Patels’ silly questions and the first hints of a smile, it feels disingenuous. At this point, Castiel has passed tipsy, he’s absolutely trashed--and Castiel himself doesn't even realize it. It’s not the worst thing he’s ever done, not by a long shot—and it might even be considered a favor, by others—but none the less he nudges Nisha’s half-empty beer away from Castiel and stands up.

                “Hey, can I talk to you for a moment?” He says, gesturing outside. Castiel complies, using the table for support, and follows Dean out.

                “What?” He asks.

                “You need to go,” Dean says, without any niceties. Castiel’s furrowed frown returns like it never left.

                “Go? Why?”

                “Because those girls are getting you drunk, and I know you don’t want that,” Dean says. A man walks by them to get into the bar, raising his eyebrows. Dean glares.

                “Why would they—”

                “Probably because I told them to. Look, it doesn’t matter. You said you don’t want to be drunk—for reasons they don’t know, and I do— and I don’t want to have to take care of you tomorrow. Get back and sleep it off, will you?”

                Even though Dean has the full force of self-righteousness behind him, he can’t help but feel bad. Even though he knows Castiel is an asshole. It’s something about the sudden, miserable droop of his face, the lost-puppy-eyes, wide with confusion, glazed with drink.

                “Man, I don’t know what to tell you. You’re one rude son of a bitch most days. You can’t act like that and expect people to take care of you. I’m doing you a favor.”

                Castiel nods a little, still lost, and turns around blindly. Dean watches him go down the street, tilting slightly to the left as he goes. Then he goes back inside, tells the Patels that Castiel said goodbye, and passes another few hours with them. They don't seem too curious about Castiel's sudden departure--after all, they were just having fun, breaking in a sullen hunter. Dean was the one with the guilty conscience.  At closing time, they hug him goodbye.

           "Have fun with your partner," Nisha says, winking as she slides into the driver's seat.

"Stay out of trouble!" Salena calls. "See you soon!" Dean watches the station wagon pull out, the rear lights bathing him red. They're off to Texas, something about a haunted museum, and then back to the Roadhouse for a short rest. He doesn't know what he'll see them again.

                He returns to the motel room to find Castiel sleeping in the bathroom,  huddled around the toilet, fingers twitching in his sleep. Dean snorts but shoves the green travel pillow beneath his head anyways, warning about not babysitting be damned. Hey, he never said he wasn’t without a little human compassion.

                Regardless, when they get into the Impala the next day, Castiel seems hesitant, a little nervous. The crumpled atlas is still on his seat, and he folds it up with care and opens the glove compartment.

                “You don’t need this, do you?” He asks.

                “No,” Dean says, and watches in bemusement as Castiel tucks it away. “You trust me to get us to Klamath safely, then?”

                Castiel looks down at his fingertips, then over at Dean quickly. “Yes,” he says.

                It’s just the one word—typical of the other hunter. But Dean can already tell, even as Castiel turns to indifference, gets out his book, settles against the far window, that something’s changed.

                He smiles and cranks the radio up, heading for California.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the late update! I lost my creative juice when I randomly got inspired to write Born Under a Bad Sign (which, by the way, thank you to everyone who read! Yay!)  
> Anyways, super long chapter...thanks to everyone who's reading and reviewing and kudoing! 
> 
> EDIT: Blah. Re-updated because there was stuff I forgot to put into the vampire scene and the bar scene...sorry! 
> 
> Next chapter: Castiel is trying to be nicer. He has a great idea concerning vices.  
> Next, next chapter: Castiel wants something that Dean has, and Dean becomes concerned about Castiel's past following them.


	4. Fracture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning/spoiler- mild element of dubcon here (presence of alcohol).

                They don’t make it to California straightaway. They have to cross Nevada first, skirting Death Valley, and then wend their way straight up the Golden State until they cross the border into Oregon.

                Easy enough, but it’s late spring, and the thunderstorms are sudden and fierce. Castiel, even with his newfound trust fall, sits rigid in the passenger seat, peering out into the pouring rain, barking out warnings, like his alertness alone will keep the car from skidding off the road. Dean finally snaps, turns to tell him to shut up, and almost rear-ends the sudden brake lights of a trailer in front of them. They sit in sullen silence for the next hour.

                Dean finds the nearest motel and checks them in—tense from the dangerous ride himself, and Castiel like a wet, grumpy cat besides him. The desk clerk gives Dean a sympathetic look as he hands over the keys.

                There’s a dingy bar attached to the motel, although the bar can only fit about eight men or so, and Dean gets hit in the stomach will the butt of a pool stick as he goes to order a drink—the jukebox, pool table and dartboard are packed close together, so the room feels as small as a broom closet.

                Besides the bartender, there’s only one other patron up at the bar. A few men are playing pool, and beyond that two drunks are loudly challenging everyone, anyone to take them on at darts. Fifty dollars to the winner. Dean rolls his eyes and turns back to his drink.

                Tomorrow’s Sam’s birthday. He doesn’t know why he cares—it’s not like they’ve ever done anything for birthdays in the past. And Sam wasn’t here for the same date last year, either, he’d fucked off way earlier than that. March, maybe. Possibly even February.

                But it’s different, because now he’s not so far away, bordering the edge of Nevada, knowing Sam is only hours away. Sam, and his new life, his school and friends and hobbies, all stacked up along the California coast like that’s the furthest he could get from Dean and their old hunting ways together without going straight into the ocean. He wonders if he should tell his brother that he’s close by. Stop by along the way, not to interfere with any of his birthday plans, but just to say hello. He hasn’t seen Sam since he left. Called him, sent the occasional text, but hasn’t had a reason to venture that far west.

                He didn’t know why he needed a reason to see Sam, beyond just wanting to see him. Didn’t know why he needed to walk in with an excuse readymade in his back pocket, _I’m on a hunt with this asshole Canadian_ , just in case Sam doesn’t want to see him.

                He doesn’t want to think too much on his reasons. He tips his head back, swallows the last few gulps, pushes his glass back for more.

                He’s there long enough that the twangy country songs all start to run together. Pickup trucks and hound dogs and girls in jean shorts—he’s never liked it, but in his current state it’s growing on him. The drinks seem to refill themselves by magic. The seats around his fill up or clear out. At some point, he hears cheering, loud hooting, and twists around in his seat to find out the source of the noise.

                Castiel is standing in the smallest clear space the room can afford, testing the balance of a dart in his hand. There’s already six darts on the board, all another color, and one of the boasting men from before is counting up his points, scraping them out in chalk. The man isn’t bad, either—they all seem to cluster close around the bullseye, and one right in the center.

                Castiel suddenly straightens up, and Dean can already recognize the expression, the narrow-eyed intensity. He feels for the hunter’s opponent.

                Castiel’s arm whips out—five times, six—one after the other, like a relentless machine. The darts don’t hang in the air; they zip from his hand to the target in a blur of motion, embedding themselves with an almost shocking viciousness—some of the men closest to the board back away, as if afraid of the damage a stray dart could do.

                Not that they had to worry. Five seconds flat, and there’s a quivering bouquet of Castiel’s darts in the bullseye. Castiel very calmly turns to his opponent and asks for his one hundred and fifty dollars.

                There’s some muted grumbling from the regulars as Castiel counts out his money, then flicks his eyes over the loser, dismissing him.

                “I thought it was fifty dollars,” Dean says, when Castiel reaches his elbow.

                “I was being myself,” Castiel replies. He signals for the bartender.

                “Being yourself?”

                “I acted normally, and the man was insulted enough to raise the stakes to one hundred and fifty dollars,” Castiel says. “As I recall, he said it would be a pleasure to  take my money from me.”

                “That’s cold, man,” Dean says, but he’s smiling.

                “I would like some whiskey,” Castiel tells the bartender. Dean’s looking at him closely, wondering at the change—surely, with Castiel’s hangover from the night before, he had even more reason than ever to swear off alcohol—but the other man isn’t looking at him.

                “ _Some_ whiskey?” Says the bartender.

                Castiel nods and peels off some bills. “A bottle will do.”

                The man raises his eyebrows but takes the money—a few moments later, he returns with a large amber bottle. Castiel takes it and briefly touches Dean’s shoulder. “Come on,” he says—brusque, demanding.

                Dean’s a little drunk, drunk enough to be curious, drunk enough to not care that he’s being bossed around. He fishes out a few crumpled ones, smoothing them on the bar, before following the other hunter.

                Castiel takes them back to their room. Dean watches from the door as Castiel retrieves two paper cups from the bathroom, clumsily fills them from the bottle, and brings a slopping cup over to Dean.

                “Here,” he says. He presses the cup into Dean’s hand and walks away.

                Somehow Dean ends up on the bed, swilling whiskey. There’s music again, rock music, and he looks around and sees that Castiel tuned the radio/alarm clock to a local station. He drinks some more, enough that he doesn’t find himself to be embarrassed to be humming along to verses, belting out the choruses, while Castiel watches him from the other bed.

                It crosses his mind that Castiel isn’t bad companionship. Or, at least, not now, not while he’s drunk. Castiel’s plying him with whiskey, playing his favorite songs, content to sit and stare and drink—although Castiel winces when he does it, smacking his lips as if to dispel the taste. There’s a high flush in his cheeks, a certain thoughtful way he’s looking at Dean.

                He doesn’t know how much more time passes. At some point, the bed dips, and Castiel is sitting next to him, the uncapped bottle between their thighs. Dean can feel the solid line of heat from him—he thinks he does, he’s pretty sure he does. He looks up and catches Castiel’s gaze—the bright dazed eyes, the wet lips. Dean obviously isn’t the only one feeling the loose, uninhibited freedom of alcohol.

                “What are we doing here, Cas?” Dean says. Slurs.

                “Whatever you want to, Dean,” the other man replies, diplomatic.

                Dean watches the bob of his Adam’s apple, entranced. He remembers the way Castiel stared when Dean exited the shower in a cloud of steam, the attractive flush that had swept over his face.

                “Thinkin’ really hard about mixing my vices,” Dean says. It’s times like these when he’s glad his patented Winchester charm doesn’t wear off like the rest of him as the night goes on. It’s engrained, a kneejerk response.

                Castiel  nods, but doesn’t say anything. His eyes, glazed by drink, are intent.

                Dean himself is trying to remember the mantras from his previous days. He’s an asshole. He ditched Jo. They’re stuck together for at least another week. Castiel would be more likely to bite his head off than be friendly about it. Case in point—Castiel’s not like Dean’s former hookups, friendly enough hunters whose intentions were clear.

                What were Dean’s intentions again? If there had to be a reason, it should be one that Castiel could get behind. 

                “Cas,” Dean says. “Cas, ever heard of hate sex?”

                Some expression flits over the other man’s face—too fast for drunken Dean too follow. Something open, something flayed. It’s gone, replaced by Castiel’s normal reserve, within a second. In its place, a look of expectation.

                “Yes,” Castiel says. Then there’s a hand at Dean’s belt.

                Warm fingers pulling him out through his zipper, quick strokes. Hot quick whiskey breath against his cheek. His hands crumpling the hem of Castiel’s shirt, pushing it up.

                Castiel on his stomach, head bowed over his forearms. Dean doesn’t question it—no, Dean’s found the lube in his duffel bag, the giving crinkle of the condom wrapper. One hand on Castiel’s trembling flank, the other working him open. Castiel’s moaning something—saying something?—and the radio is still softly playing, now a song by Kansas, now a song by the Rolling Stones, and he’s mesmerized by the quick rhythmic movements of his hand.

                Guitar riff. Slides on the condom, slides into Castiel, chants _fuck, fuck fuck fuck_ to the ceiling, relishing that first hot long glide. Castiel’s wearing a shirt still, Dean’s not quite sure why, but he can see the just of his shoulder blades through the thin material, can see how they roll and quake with each push in.

                He wants to say something, but isn’t sure what. Not endearments. No joking nicknames or easy camaraderie here. Maybe it’s the drink, but he has a sudden, unpleasant feeling, looking at the back of Castiel’s dark head, that they aren’t doing this together. Chasing their pleasure apart. Some coincidence of joined bodies.

                The thought disappears in the next deep thrust, the one that makes Castiel give a surprised exhalation and roll back to meet him. He hauls Castiel up by his hips and reaches around, strokes him once, twice, and Castiel shoots off in his hand. He can hear Castiel gasping something into the pillow, fingers clenching the fabric. Dean comes with the pounding drum solo of a Styx song setting the tempo. Drops his head between Castiel’s sweaty shoulder blades.

                Passes out there, loose-limbed and fuzzy-brained, just like that.

**

                He wakes suddenly, disoriented, hand flying to a gun that isn’t there.

                Dean takes stock. He’s naked, pleasantly sore, sprawled across the bed, and the radio is softly, persistently beeping. He doesn’t think that’s what woke him.

                He turns his head, sees Castiel sitting up on the side of the bed. His back’s to Dean, so Dean can see the wrinkled mess of his shirt, the dimples at the base of his spine, his bare legs. Castiel’s shoulders are high around his ears when he turns to look at Dean.

                “Good morning,” the other man says, tentatively. He looks—well, like he got fucked last night. The frenzied nest of hair on his head builds up to a single curled strand, like the whipped topping of a sundae.

                Dean smiles. “Thought you said you weren’t a drinker, Cas. When did that start?”

                “The night before yesterday,” Castiel says.                   

                Dean’s brain starts to reboot. He looks down at the pile of clothes pushed onto the floor, the crumpled bedsheets. He and Castiel got trashed last night and had hate sex. Now they’re having the kind of polite, mincing conversation that belongs at a tea party.

                Dean runs a hand down his face. Can feel Castiel’s eyes following the movement. “Christ. I might need another drink.”

                Castiel doesn’t say anything. He’s actually not looking at Dean now, either, is entirely focused on pushing himself up from the bed. Dean watches, with an ugly drop in his stomach, the slow, ginger way Castiel unfolds himself. How he takes his first cautious step.  

                “What the _fuck_ ,” Dean says. He sits up.

                “What the fuck, what?” Castiel says. He’s pulling on a pair of jeans, now, not even bothering to zip them up. But Dean can see how he’s already suiting up in his asshole armor again.

                “Dude—was that. Was that your first time?”

                Castiel glares from across the room.

                “No—” He says, hotly, too fast.

                Dean raises his eyebrows. “Was that your first time _with a man_?”

                “Why does it matter? Need to keep a record of it?” Castiel hisses. He’s gathering up an armful of clothes from his backpack, his spine too straight, and he’s not quite meeting Dean’s eye. Dean, who feels like he’s gonna be sick.

                Dean, who’s pissed that he’s still laid out across the bed like a Rose in _Titanic_ while Castiel glares daggers at him. (Glad that Castiel doesn’t have a real one in his hand.) He jerks the sheet up over his lap.

                “No!” He says, stung. “Just—Jesus, man. Don’t put that crap on me.”

                “ _What_ crap, Dean? Virginity is a social construct—”

                “Yeah, okay, fine. Let’s not have this conversation.”

                “No, _let’s._ I want to make something clear. You said it yourself—hate sex. In-the-trenches sex. Things like _first times_ or _making love_ have absolutely nothing to do with hunters, with _us_.”

                Dean throws his hands up, nonplussed. “Okay, you’re right. I didn’t mean to make a big deal out of it.”

                Castiel nods, practically vibrating, across the room. He goes to open the bathroom door.

                “Just—“ Dean says. “We’re on the same page here, right? I thought you didn’t like sex, or drinking. But last night, I thought you wanted to—” He hates the way his voice turns doubtful, trails off. Last night everything had seemed pretty clear-cut. It doesn’t help, the way Castiel bites and snarls in the morning, his eyes accusing.

                “I did. I do,” Castiel says. “I changed my mind.” Then he twists the knob, shutting the door quickly behind him. Dean collapses backwards onto the bed, rubbing his eyes. Jesus _fuck_. He should have known it was a bad idea.

                No, he’d known, and done it anyway.

                Castiel’s still an asshole. He still ditched Jo. And Dean’s still gonna be stuck with him for the next week, with his awful moods and murky intentions and now, the awkwardness of last night.

                No. Dean could _really_ use a drink.

**

                Castiel’s shower drags on interminably. Dean’s not dwelling on the reasons as to why.

                He flips his phone open, sees the date scrolling across the top. MAY 2. Huffs out a breath and presses the first number on his speed dial.

                There’s a blast of noise on the other end. “H-Hello?” He hears. Sam’s voice—loud, laughing. It makes his stomach do a swan dive.

                “Sam?”

                “ _Hello?_ ” There’s the chatter of people in the background, a distinct crash.

                “Sammy?”

                Dean hears a loud rustle on the other end, and finally the chatter dies away a little in the background.

                “Sorry, there’s a lot of people in there,” Sam says unnecessarily. He still sounds a little breathless. “Hey, Dean. It’s nice to almost hear your voice.”

                Dean feels a nasty rush pumping through his veins. He can’t explain it. He doesn’t like how Sam can sound so happy, so carefree on the phone. Like he’s not even trying to hide how happy he is in sunny Berkeley. Like there’s nothing left unsaid between them. Like Sam’s the one extending the olive branch, not him. He wants to say, like a kid, that it was _his_ idea first.

                Instead, he says, “Yeah. Just, you know, wanted to wish you a happy birthday.” Even tries out a disinterested shrug, there in the empty motel room, to go along with his tone.

                “Thanks,” Sam says warmly. “As you can tell, it’s already shaping up to be a crazy day.”

                “Yeah,” Dean says. “Sure.”

                “It’s not what I’m used to,” Sam says. “It’s different.  But it’s nice.”

                “Well, you can’t always celebrate with the porn mags and bags of dried fruit your brother would get you,” Dean says. “That’s a step up in the world.”

                There’s a long silence on the other end. Dean kicks the bottom of the metal bedroom, hearing the hollow ring.

                Finally, Sam says, “There was nothing wrong with that, either.”

                “Okay,” Dean says quickly. “Well, I’d betting get going—”

                “I wish you could be here,” Sam blurts. “I know, chick flick moment. You don’t even have to say it.”

                There’s a voice in the background, getting louder, asking Sam how he wants his eggs cooked.

                “I can’t—” Dean says.

                “Yeah, no, I know why—”

                “But I’m gonna be in California in the next few days,” Dean says. He wasn’t originally planning on divulging that information, but he does it anyways. He sits down on the edge of the bed, dreading Sam’s response.

                The voices get a little louder. Dean hears someone ask Sam if he’s ready. “Look, I’ve got to go,” Sam says, talking fast. “Seriously, that’s great news. I’ll text you about a good day, okay? Keep me posted. I want to see you. Thanks for calling—”

                The dial tone kicks on. Dean quickly shuts his phone and stands up. He still isn’t sure why he told Sam about being in California. He’s not sure he’s ready to darken the doorstep of Sam’s apple-pie life again.

                When he stands, his foot hits something hard. He notices it’s Castiel’s ancient book—it probably fell out of his backpack when he was getting clothes. Dean stoops down to pick it up, noticing that the book automatically falls open to a certain, dog-eared page.

                He hears the shower shut off. He glances over the page, and then looks harder.

                There is a list of demon names, like Castiel said. Branching out horizontally and vertically, a complex interweaving of alliances, the ink faded and brown. Belial, Grigori, Orcus, Moloch.

                That’s not what’s so interesting to Dean. It’s the fact that in a newer ink, shining in bright red slashes across the page, some of the names have been crossed out.

**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dsfgs!  
> Okay, so, as you can see, Cas's intentions and reactions are all very bewildering to Dean. To be clear, Cas was a willing participant (the dubcon warning was only for their drunkenness), it's just that his reasons are different from Dean's. (I'm sure you might even know what Castiel's intentions are!)  
> I think that's important, just because if we have any ruffled feathers here over Dean's use of the words "hate sex," it has more to do with how Dean thinks Castiel thinks of him, and how he thinks of his relationship with Cas, as opposed to the reality.  
> (thanks for mansplaining, aileenrose.)  
> Thanks to lovely readers, commenters, kudo-leavers...!
> 
> Next chapter: Dean still thinks of the almost-apocalypse. Castiel is keeping secrets from Dean, and now they're both using diversion tactics.  
> Next, next chapter: Castiel to the rescue, a long-awaited resolution, a reference to Pretty Woman.


	5. Littoral

It took them a while—Dean and Sam—to realize it was the end of the world.

                As usual, it was their job that tipped them off; showed them that things were amiss. Rugarus and werewolves working together. Ghouls and witches setting a trap that almost killed them outside of Perrysburg a few weeks later. Never before had they, or any other hunter, seen monsters acting as kin, as partners. That was all changing.

                It was touch-and-go for a while there. Hunts made even more dangerous, monsters willing to get over centuries of enmity to band together and take out the humans who hunted them. Dean and Sam, running across the country like an obstacle course, trying to stall Lilith and her breaking of the seals.

                And, in the midst of all that, finding out that, to Sam, Ruby was more than a part-time demon informant, a strange turncoat. No, Sam saw her as a mentor, a lover, a source of power. Sam was sneaking around to see her and suck down blood milkshakes when Dean was sleeping, or out drinking. They spent weeks apart—Dean getting his first, foreshadowing taste of hunting with strangers. Sam smoking out demons while Ruby stood aside, smirking, a proud mama.

                People tend to forget about that, when they praise the Winchesters for saving the world. They forget those dark few weeks where Sam left with a demon, and Dean let him, and fought losing battles far apart from each other, not even knowing if the other was still alive or not.

                But this is what Dean knows—that, on a hunt, he had the marvelous good fortune to capture one of Lilith’s prized lieutenants. That finally, finally, the monster-mixing was explained—promises that Lucifer,  their soon-to-be released master, would rule benevolently over a world of supernatural paradise. No more living in the shadows, no—humans the outsiders, the enslaved race, the hunted. Hell on earth. Demons and ghosts and ghouls living together in gristly harmony.

                That was not all. Lilith’s lieutenant had something else to say, trying to save his own life. That he didn’t know anything else, but he did know someone else who did. A woman he saw meeting with Lilith—a secret meeting he hadn’t been meant to see. A demon named Ruby.

                Cue calling Bobby, and yet another trap set. Sam and Ruby came to Sioux Falls reluctantly, but still they came. Sam, high and unreasonable on demon blood, locked into the basement. Ruby captured in a demon trap, laughing, refusing any connection to Lilith at all. She said, she didn’t want to help Lilith. She wanted Sam to kill her.

                The passing days were awful. Dean could only be grateful for Bobby, who never wavered. Even when Sam was shouting in agony, his cries echoing up the pipes. Even when Ruby refused to talk, taunting them, daring Dean to hurt the only demon on his team.

                So people tend to forget the things Dean did to make a demon talk.

                Finally, hanging on to life by her fingernails, Ruby did. Admitted something that only her and Lilith knew. Killing Lilith was to be the final seal, the grand finale. Lucifer rising victorious from the pools of her blood. So close—she had gotten so close to making Sam into the final key. It had been easy, with Dean and Sam fighting, with the elder brother far away. She had gotten so close.

                Dean thinks about that. How close Sam got, that cliff’s edge of madness and addiction that he had reached. Remembers it when they faced Lilith for the final time, when the plan went to shit and there was an army of supernatural waiting for them. When his tattoo was scrubbed off like a smudge, and thick black smoke was forced down his throat, and he saw through powerless eyes the hatred on Sam’s face, the way his hands twisted at his sides, as Lilith spoke with Dean’s voice, reached out with Dean’s hands—“How much is your brother’s life worth to you”—

                “ _Dean_.”

                Dean shoots up from bed, or tries to, but there was two firm hands on his shoulders, keeping him from reaching his knife. His nightmare dissipates, his vision clears, and he sees that he’s twisted up in his sheets, sweating, and Castiel is leaning over him.

                “I’m—I’m awake,” Dean says. His throat feels raw. Castiel is still looking closely at him in the near dark, but after a moment he draws his hands away and puts them, limp, in his lap. Dean struggles to sit up, and they both breathe in silence for a few minutes.

                “It was a nightmare,” Dean says. It’s still dark outside, and the prospect of talking in the near-dark to the silent stranger sitting next to him seems exponentially more appealing than remembering the events of the almost-apocalypse.

                Castiel nods, shifting on the bed. “I thought so.”

                “Hope I didn’t wake you,” Dean says, awkwardly.

                “It’s okay,” is the response. Castiel sounds like he means it.

                Dean passes a hand across his forehead, feeling the slight sheen of sweat there. His hands. His forehead. All moving under his own willpower, nothing amiss. There had been another day of storms; high flooding, too. Dean and Castiel had made it to California, but just barely. Two days of strange silences and eyes that darted away. He had touched Castiel’s arm by accident yesterday, switching gears, and Castiel had pulled away as if burned.

                So Dean’s had a lot of time to think over that night, cobbling together hazy recollections. The way Castiel’s face had shuttered down—“hate sex.” How he threw those words at Dean like a grenade the next morning. Maybe Dean wasn’t at good at reading people as he thought. Maybe the mutual dislike since their meeting had changed into something else, and he’d been too slow on the uptake.

                “Thanks for—you know,” Dean says. His tone is apologetic. For—everything, maybe. He had treated Castiel by the same playbook as anyone else, and now they weren’t so much antagonistic as much as remote and unfamiliar from each other. Dean tries to pretend that he doesn’t know what Castiel sounds like when he’s made vulnerable, lost in pleasure. It’s surprisingly not as easy to forget as he thought.

                Maybe it’s because that’s the closest he comes to _knowing_ Castiel. He doesn’t know why Castiel’s so taciturn, doesn’t know his past or why he’s carrying a book of demon names with some crossed out. But, for a brief moment, they had come to some understanding. A brief period of trying to _know_ together.

                Maybe he’s not the only one who’s trying, though. Castiel, two days ago so hostile, had retreated like a wounded animal. Had viewed him from afar like an unexpectedly complicated math equation. Now he squints and says, “Can I get you some…thing?”

                “Something?”

                “Um, a cup of water?” Castiel says, rubbing the back of his neck. “A moist towelette?”

                “A _moist towelette_?”

                Castiel, starting to looking aggravated, opens his mouth, but Dean immediately waves his hand.

                “Sorry,” he says. “That’s, uh, really nice of you. But I’m okay now.”

                Castiel nods, Dean watches the shape of his white t-shirt as he rises from the bed and moves over to his own. The other man slides the covers up over his shoulders and turns over.

                Dean’s eyes slide over to the dark head, turned away. “I know something that could make me feel better in the morning,” he says.

                The covers audibly rustle as Castiel looks over warily. “What’s that?”

                “Gonna make you go to a diner with me,” Dean says. “Have  a real, greasy, American breakfast. And real _pie_.”

                And, maybe, the cover of darkness has loosened Castiel’s normal inhibitions, too. “Alright,” he says. “As long as it’s fast. We’re behind schedule as it is.”

                Dean rolls his eyes but doesn’t say anything. Instead, he listens to Castiel’s breathing drop back into the cadence of sleeping. Dean settles down into his bed, too, even though he knows he won’t be able to fall back asleep now. He can pretend that the steady, slightly whistling breaths are Sam, or John Winchester, or any of the women he’s slept with since life on the road.

                He could, but he doesn’t.

**

                In the light of day, Castiel is less sold on the idea of stopping for an extended diner visit. He lists the quick, express breakfasts that can be found elsewhere on the highway—McDonalds, Tim Horton’s. A farmer’s market.

                Dean waits out his list of possible alternative and then just raises a brow, a subtle reminder.

                “Or,” Castiel says, glaring off to the side. “We can go to the diner, as planned.” His voice trails off as he talks, ending on a barely audible note.

                “What was that?”

                “It’s your funeral, Dean Winchester,” Castiel says, and ignores Dean when he guns the engine.

                Dean’s funeral, indeed. At the diner, he orders cheesy scrambled eggs on toast, strawberry crepes, a side of bacon.

                “The banana crème pancake stack is on special,” the waitress notes as she jots down Dean’s order.

                “I’ll have those, too,” Dean says.

                Castiel, frowning down at the menu like it’s a foreign language, looks up morosely when the waitress turns to him.

                “I’m not sure what I want,” he says. “Maybe—maybe a black coffee?”

                The woman puts down an unimpressed scratch on her notepad.

                “Come on,” Dean says. “Waffles? Pancakes? Bet you _love_ maple syrup, right?”

                “No.”

                The waitress says she’ll put in Dean’s order while Castiel decides, and walks again, shoes squeaking on the tile.                

                After a few minutes, Dean shifts in his seat, impatient. “Are you really having that hard a time?”              

                Castiel lowers the menu, giving Dean a tight-lipped, disapproving look. “At least those fast food places have simple things. Not so much variety. Everything on this menu is overflowing with syrup or whipped cream or powdered sugar—”

                “This wasn’t supposed to be a difficult experience,” Dean says. “Come on, man. Live a little.”

                At the words, Castiel’s face momentarily drops. With renewed effort, he turns back to the menu, and when the waitress returns, he has an order. Belgian waffles. He looks relieved as the woman walks away.

                “See? Not so bad,” Dean says. “Sam and I used to practically live at these kinds of places. I’d always try the unhealthy things; Sam would always get the wilted grass salad. It was nice to know that every town in America had one of these places.”

                Castiel is grabbing a packet of granulated sugar, methodically pouring some into his coffee, mixing it with his coffee, and then adding some more.

                “Maybe,” he says, hesitantly, “Sam needed to live a little, too.”

                Dean barks out a surprised sound. “Yeah, that’s what he gets for being a health nut.”

                Castiel, looks back at his coffee. Dean thinks he can see the ghost of a smile directed at his cup there. It puts Dean even more of an obnoxious mood. He talks a lot, he bounces his knee up and down, he drums his fingers on the table. Castiel listens and sips at his coffee, but he seems the most relaxed Dean’s seen since—well. Since the disaster two nights before.

                “—So Sam and I would sneak into nearby bars. He was always good at counting cards. And I would sweep the table at pool. So that’s how we made our allowance.”

                “You miss your brother,” Castiel remarks.

                Dean’s knee freezes mid-bounce. “Well, yeah. I mean, most siblings are raised together, obviously—but we spent every day together. Every moment. I pretty much raised him.”

                “Yes, I know,” Castiel says. He drinks his coffee.

                “Well, I’m always at the disadvantage,” Dean says. “People seem to know all about me.”

                Castiel shrugs. There’s a brief silence, then, broken only by the tinkle of the bell when a new pair of customers come in—a lanky, pale teenager and an older woman, who look over Dean and then away, heading to a booth somewhere behind Castiel.

                “What about you, man?” Dean says. “You an older brother, too?”

                Castiel’s features momentarily pinch. Then, the familiar sweep of impassivity over his face.

                “Multiple siblings, yes,” Castiel says. “I…haven’t seen them in quite some time.”

                “They all have weird-ass names like you?”

                Castiel rewards Dean with the anticipated glare. “They’re biblical names,” he says stiffly. “Angelic names. ‘Castiel’ is the name of the angel of Thursday. Some are more well-known, like Michael or Gabriel. But there was also Anael, and Raphael, and Inias—”

                “Sounds like _Full House_.”

                “It was,” Castiel says. “Nine of us. We—we lived in a small town outside of Alberta. An even smaller house in the woods. We would tap the maple trees  and come home with full buckets spilling over. They would make fun of me, because I’d be so sticky everywhere—my knees, my hair—”

                “The banana crème pancake stack?” The waitress stands there with a loaded tray, looking between them quizzically.

                Dean nods his head, distracted, watching as Castiel’s animated face abruptly disappears. He sits quiet, wooden, as the plate of Belgian waffles is slid in front of him.

                “So,” Dean says, after the waitress has left. “You were a walking fly trap?”

                Castiel grabs up a fork and starts sawing into his food. “It’s nothing. I’m not—I’m not used to talking about myself.” He gives Dean a quick, close look, and then turns back to his waffles. And so Dean knows that it’s over, that brief moment of Castiel sharing anything with him is over.

                They eat in relatively companionable silence. Dean polishes off his four plates, then groans and massages his stomach. Castiel watches him like Dean’s an exceptionally curious zoo animal.

                “Well, for once in my life I don’t think I have room in my stomach for pie,” Dean says. “Next time, right?”

                “Hmm,” Castiel says instead. “Are you ready, then?”

                They get up to go. Castiel is pulling up his hood already, peering out at the drizzling parking lot. Dean is distracted as he hears the rattle of a table nearby—the lanky teenager from before is standing up hastily, fast enough to bump the table, as he drops some bills on the table. As Dean watches, the salt and pepper shakers teeter and fall over. He can’t see the face of the woman, but he does hear her gasp as she quickly retracts her hand from the table.

                He climbs into the car next to Castiel. “Think we’ve got company,” he says. In the rearview, he watches the odd couple walking to a shabby gray car parked a few spaces away. “A couple demons, maybe.”

                He’s gearing up for a fight, but it’s what happens next that surprises him. It’s Castiel lack of a reaction, really, that seals the deal. “Really?” He says coolly. “How do you know?” Absolutely unsurprised, like he’s been expecting it.

                “Something to do with salt,” Dean says. He tries to appear nonchalant as he pulls from the parking lot, but his head is spinning. Yes, maybe there could be demons after him. Very unlikely, but he was the harbinger of the non-apocalypse. Bad feelings all around.

                But Dean can still remember the old book of Castiel’s that he had opened while the man had showered. The old, demonic ties of power. The new lines that hinted at some sort of action on Castiel’s part. 

                Dean sometimes doesn’t get the credit he’s due. It occurs to him, the kind of gut feeling he immediately knows is right, that maybe Castiel wasn’t driven out of Canada. Maybe Castiel had been following something, hunting someone. Maybe he’s been here all along with a purpose.

                “I wonder why we’d have demons tracking us,” Dean says blandly. “Maybe I’m wrong.”

                “Maybe,” Castiel says. Dean resists the urge to swerve over to the roadside and lay into him. Instead, Dean watches Castiel watch the road behind them through the passenger side mirror.

                The thing is, he wants to shut Castiel down now. He’d actually, surprisingly, been enjoying himself with the other man not even an hour before. And now Castiel is lying by omission, pretending innocence. It ticks Dean off, but he also has a history of experience here. A cycle of lying—Sam to Dean, Dean to Sam, Dean to himself. He could say something biting, something about how _real_ partners wouldn’t lie to each other. But that’s just not true, apparently.

                Instead, he flips on the radio and they drive for hours. Every once in a while, he flicks his eyes to the rearview, sees a gray vehicle following them a few car-lengths back, for far too long a stretch to be coincidence.

                Castiel starts to grow restless next to him. His fingers twitch, as if for a weapon. But he doesn’t say anything, just looks out the window.

                To Dean’s surprise, Castiel breaks first. “If there are demons following us,” Castiel says, and stops.

                “Yeah?”

                “ I’ve heard that you have a knife. A special one.”

                “The demon blade, yeah,” Dean says. “Puts a permanent end to those fuckers.”

                Castiel nods. “That would come in handy.”

                “It has in the past,” Dean says. “That’s why I always make sure to keep it nearby.”

                They lapse into silence again. Behind them, the gray car slides into the passing lane.

**

                The rain had held off for most of their drive, but the downpour came around eight in the evening. Dean finds a Super 8 and checks them in. He looks around the parking lot, searching for the slide of headlights, but so far sees nothing.

                He hasn’t had a chance to look at Castiel full on since they left the diner. Now, when he turns with the key card, he looks at his drawn face, his clenched jaw. Something’s definitely going on.

                Once in their room, he takes his time drawing demon traps at the threshold and beneath the windowsill. Castiel watches from the bed, saying nothing.

                Once properly defended, Dean turns.

                “All right, Cas,” he says. “Spill.”

                Castiel has the grace to look surprised. “Spill what?”

                Dean shrugs out of his flannel and lets out a humorless laugh. “Let’s cut the crap, okay? I know you know something you’re not telling me. And it’s really shitty to leave me hanging in the wind when we could have a bloodthirsty crowd of demons knocking down the door at any moment.”

                But Castiel remains closed off and stubborn. “I don’t know anything more than you do.”

                “Oh yeah? Is that why you’re suddenly so interested in my demon blade?”

                “If there _are_ demons, I wanted to make sure your best weapon was on hand,” Castiel says. He’s a terrible liar, or maybe Dean just knows how to read him now.

                “I’m gonna call bull-fuckin’-shit on that,” Dean says. He pulls the knife from the waist of his pants. “You want to be evasive? Fine. But just know your best chances lie with this knife, and this knife is staying with me.” He then proceeds to make a show of putting it under his pillow.

                Castiel gives him the flat, unimpressed stare of a fish.

                The rain pours outside as they both prepare for sleep. Finally, they’re both in their own beds, the blue wash of the TV lighting them up.

                Dean stubbornly flips to a marathon of Doctor Sexy and turns it up. Castiel lets out a loud groan and pulls the travel pillow up, like ear flaps.

                “You really have to watch that right now?” Castiel says.

                “Yep,” Dean says. “Oh, look, it’s a marathon. I just might be up the whole night watching this.”

                “Wonderful,” the other man grumbles.

                Dean gets a little bit distracted from his grudge  match—Doctor Sexy is trying to run through a rainstorm to reach the back-up power generator, or else all the patients who are oxygen-dependent, on life support, will soon die without the help. Dean’s not sure that’s how hospitals work, but Doctor Sexy’s white lab coat is skin-tight and almost translucent now, so  he’s not going to complain.

                Somewhere in the second episode, Castiel speaks up again.

                “Are you purposely trying to keep _me_ up, too?”

                “Oh, just keeping you company,” Dean says. “You ever watched this? You should watch this.”

                “Turn it off.”

                “Fine. Promise you’re not demon-hunting tonight.”

                There’s a brief silence. Then, a pillow slaps down over Dean’s face.

                “You. Are—insufferable!” Castiel says.

                Dean rips off the pillow, gasping. “ _I’m_ insufferable? Have you met yourself?”

                “Turn that _shit off_ ,” Castiel says.

                Dean just laughs and turns up the volume. “Hey, look, Doc’s found the power generator, but the door’s locked. Let’s guess how many times he has to ram the door with his shoulder before he gets in.” He looks up, smiling obnoxiously, at Castiel, whose chest is heaving. “I already know, of course, but just take a stab at it and I’ll tell you when you’re close.”

                The strangest expression crosses Castiel’s face. A mask seems to slip, and his face loses years and tension. Castiel lets out a disbelieving laugh. Dean stares while Castiel’s shoulders shake, the other man still laughing in a way like he can’t quite believe it himself.

                “So you _do_ have a sense of humor,” Dean finally says. He gives Castiel a slight push, as if testing if he’s real. “There’s a surprise.”

                Castiel, quick as a snake, grabs his arm, trying to grapple the remote from him. Dean pulls his arm away and Castiel follows, clambering over him.

                “Hey—get off—”

                They end up wrestling like children  on the bed. Doctor Sexy’s bellowing in the rain somewhere, but Dean’s attention is elsewhere—on the unguarded delight that overcomes Castiel’s features, how he slides over Dean and out of his grip like oil. Dean finally struggles out from under the covers and flips Castiel over, pinning their hands, jointly wrapped around the remote, over Castiel’s head.

                “Who’s won?” Castiel says breathlessly. There should be an answer to that question, but Dean’s caught somewhere in the open, unshadowed shine of his eyes, the relaxed tilt of his mouth.

                “Uh—” Dean says.

                “Dean?” The other man rolls his body up slightly, experimentally, to see if Dean will move off. Dean doesn’t feel like this is child’s play anymore, nothing like the games he and Sam used to play, but now he’s frozen in indecision.

                Castiel seems to catch on.

                “Oh,” he says, more seriously. There’s something shy about the way he looks away and up under his eyelashes. Something more open and vulnerable than Dean’s ever seen from him. And then, that look becomes something else, a resigned, self-mocking twist of features, as he says, “Dean, do you want to—”

                “No,” Dean says quickly, scrambling up. It’s like he threw a blanket over Castiel’s expression.

                He sits up too, hunching away. “Oh.”

                “It’s not—”

                “I realize it made things strange,” Castiel says. “Before. And now.”

                “No, wait,” Dean says. He lays a hand flat across Castiel’s shin. “Listen. It did, but it doesn’t have to be like _that_ again.”

                “Like what?”

                Dean thinks of Castiel’s defensive anger the day after. The way his face lit up at the diner, the way he laughed like he was surprised he could.

                He takes a deep breath. “Do you hate me, Cas?”

                Castiel’s face freezes in recognition. “…No.”

                “Well, I don’t either,” Dean says. Castiel watches him carefully, but now the impassivity and resignation of before seems to be trickling away. “I’m not gonna have hate sex with you.”

                The other man's eyes flick up to his and away. Castiel seems to think. “Another kind of sex,” he says seriously, nodding thoughtfully like a student in class.

                “Yeah,” Dean says.

                “One that takes no former feelings into account,” Castiel says.

                “Feelings? Fuck ‘em.”

                “How about, it-doesn’t-have-to-mean-anything sex?” Castiel says, lips just barely quirking.

                “Just what the doctor ordered,” Dean says, and because he’s already down there, he hooks his fingers over the waist of Castiel’s dorky pajama pants and pulls them off.

                “You’re a nerd,” Castiel says in a marveling voice, and then he chokes off in a practically pornographic moan.

                Dean pulls out his best tricks, taking advantage of his sobriety. He works Castiel into his mouth, back into his throat, inch by inch, while Castiel lets out whistling breaths of pleasure above him. He slides his hands under Cas, grabs his ass, and rocks him into his mouth, slowly, than faster. Castiel babbles something, grabs his hair, and comes.

                Dean smirks up at Castiel’s dopily dazed face. Castiel’s eyes narrow down in a stare of competition. His grip on Dean’s hair tightens, and Dean's hauled up the bed, cursing, until he’s face to face with Castiel.

                Castiel relaxes his head back on the pillow, nodding. “Go on, then.”

                So Dean eagerly pushes down his briefs and take his cock in one hand, sitting up on Castiel’s chest, throwing his other palm against the wall for balance. Eyes locked with Castiel’s, he guides his dick in and out of Castiel’s mouth. It doesn’t take long. Castiel swallows around him, and Dean’s hand hits the wall, muffled.

                “Fuck.” He pulls out and strokes himself, coming in a white rush of heat.

                Afterwards, he trudges to the bathroom, hitching his briefs back up, and grabs a towel. Castiel allows him to wipe off his chin, like a pampered customer at a high-end restaurant.

                Dean flumps down next to Castiel, close enough to touch. They’re silent for a long moment, but when Dean looks over at Castiel, he looks okay. Content. Certainly better than the disastrous other time. Dean never saw his face then.

                “I think I like it-doesn’t-have-to-mean-anything sex,” Dean remarks, sleepy.

                Castiel rolls his eyes and hooks his toe over the sheet, bringing it up. Doctor Sexy drones on in the background as they fall asleep, one after the other.

**

                Dean wakes up suddenly, remembering, an hour or so later. The television’s still going and there’s a long line of heat on one side of his body, a snuffling snore.

                Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he misinterpreted everything. Maybe there were no demons, after all.

                Then again, he wakes up a little after that, and Castiel is gone.

**

                Dean’s Impala roars out of the Super 8 parking lot, and he’s fuming inside of it.

                Castiel’s gone, and he took the blade that was under Dean’s pillow.

                “It’s not even the real fucking demon blade!” He had shouted into the empty motel room. It had been a red herring, a warning, a hint at what Castiel could do if he just trusted Dean.

                Well. Guess that proved that.

                Mostly, Dean’s furious with himself. He had been trying to bait Castiel with the blade. An even trade—tell Dean why he wanted it so bad, and Dean would let him use it. But that had backfired. Castiel’s out there with the equivalent of a butter knife. And Dean has no idea where to find him.

                Did Castiel know what he was doing, when he got into bed with Dean? The thought make his stomach clench. Had that all been part of getting the blade, sliding it out from under Dean’s pillow, crying out in ecstasy? It seemed like Castiel thought he got his even trade, after all. Wouldn't have cared if his partner didn't think the same. It was all in line with his history of ditching people.

                “Shit.” No, Dean couldn’t believe that. He couldn’t have made up the surprised pleasure in Castiel’s eyes, the pleased lethargy in the aftermath. Castiel had let his guard down, too. He’d allowed himself to be tugged away from his stupid nighttime mission. And then woken up sometime in the early hours, and his resolve had returned.

                So. Castiel has the fake blade. Dean has the real one—and the car. He can only hope he can find Castiel, or the demons. Hopefully not both together. As he drives he peers down side streets, looks to the edges of the road. He doesn’t know where to find these demons. He thinks that Castiel doesn’t, either.

                He drives to the outskirts, takes a U-turn, and drives back again. Takes a different route, off of the main street, and cruises slowly. He’s at the other end of the town limits when he sees a gray car parked against the edge of the road haphazardly.

                Well. Looks like the demons were never going to come to them. These demons wanted Castiel to find them. Had left the equivalent of a beacon.

                Dean parks a little ways down the road and grabs the demon blade from the passenger seat. It feels good, solid, in his hand. He walks through the dewy grass, past the gray car, and follows the service road it’ sets off—at the end of it, he sees, is a decrepit factory of some kind.

                There are no footprints in the grass anywhere around. Either Castiel came by some other way, or he hasn’t yet made it here. Or something kept him from coming.

                He approaches the factory at an angle. There are stacks of boards lying around the empty yard, machinery that might not have been used in decades. There’s a side door hanging open, slightly, that he thinks the wind might be moving—then he realizes it’s opening.

                The teenager from before stands in the darkened doorway. “Come out here to get a fish, land an even bigger one,” he says in glee. “I sure am happy to see you, Dean Winchester.”

                “Can’t say the feeling is mutual,” Dean grunts. “Where’s Cas?”

                The demon’s eyes lift to over Dean’s shoulder. “Not sure. Don’t look.”

                Dean looks, just in time to see a board come down onto his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could give a detailed description of how hard it was to write this chapter, but I think "ah, fuck it" suffices.  
> Thanks to all my readers and commenters and kudoers!
> 
> Next chapter: Cas vs. everyone, Julia Roberts, if it's not hate sex or it-doesn't-mean-anything sex, then what is it?  
> Next, next chapter: A visit to Berkeley, someone's heard from Jo, a compare and contrast between former and present partners.


	6. Solutional

The first thing he’s aware of is the rope tightly binding his wrists.

                After that, the grimy cement beneath him, and the cold stone of the pillar he’s tied to, and the hard object—he’s guessing a shoe—that’s digging into his side repeatedly.

                “Hey, Sleeping Beauty, wake up,” a voice says. “Can’t doze forever.”

                Dean pries open one eye, then the other.

                The teenager from before is standing over him, smirking, and he’s outlined in the sunlight coming in from the grimy windows behind him. Dean can only guess what hour it is—afternoon, at least. How long has it been since he got knocked out during the night?

                “If you wanted to tie me up, you could have just asked,” Dean says, giving a humorless smile. His head throbs from even talking.

                The boy just  smirks. “It’s more fun this way. And, in case you were wondering—” He brings out a blade from behind his back, twirling it carelessly in his hands. “I found your welcome gift.  I’m touched, Dean—you wouldn’t give the infamous demon blade to just anyone, would you?”

                “How do you know that’s the real demon blade?” Dean says. He already knows his gun is gone. He tries to subtly roll his ankle in his boot—but no, he can’t feel the press of the small knife he kept shoved in there, either. These demons were thorough.

                “Good question,” the boy says, much too happy to oblige him. “Hey—Ruth!” He calls.

                For the longest moment, there isn’t an answer. Then, there’s a scuffling from somewhere behind Dean.

                “What,” a voice says flatly.

                “I need your help,” the boy says in a wheedling voice. “Come in for a second?”

                “You told me to guard the back entrance, in case  _he_  came,” Ruth answers. Her tone is challenging.  “You said it was just as important as Belial guarding the perimeter, or Az watching the road. Now you want me to leave?”

                “ _Ruth_ ,” the boy says, in a voice that seems far too commanding for the body it’s coming from. There’s an aggrieved sigh, the sound of a door closing, and shuffling steps coming forward. Dean cranes his neck and sees the middle-aged woman from the diner, looking mutinous, her eyes black.

                “What kind of help?” She asks. She looks suspiciously between Dean and the boy.

                “I need you to test something for me,” the boy says, running his finger over the edge of the knife thoughtfully. Dean watches as the blade whistles through the air, burying itself in Ruth’s chest before she can even gasp in surprise. She screams, her body pulsing with colors, and crumples to the floor as the boy slides the blade free.

                “Looks like I might have the real deal,” the boy says cheerfully.

                “You always reward all your loyal followers like that?” Dean asks. “Even throwing dental care and casual Fridays into the mix, it doesn’t seem like the best deal.”

                The demon scoffs. “Very funny. But she isn’t my follower, Dean. She was one of Uncle’s more recent additions to the family. And, of course,  if he asks, I’ll just say that you took Ruth out before I could capture you. A tragedy, really.” He smiles, shaking his head. “But you’ll keep it our little secret, won’t you?”

                “Sure,” Dean says. “So it that who we’re waiting for—Uncle?”

                “Oh, yes, he’ll be here soon enough. And happier than a clam to see you, too. But he was also hoping to finish his business with Castiel. See, we’re expecting a bit of a showdown—” He flips the blade deftly between his fingers, catching it palm up, “—And Uncle would be most disappointed If Novak missed the party.”

                “Hmm,” Dean says, looking around the empty room. “You know, if Cas didn’t get the invitation, Uncle might express his disappointment to the guy in charge. That’s you, right?”

                There’s suddenly a blade at his throat, the taunting smile from before completely dropped from the demon boy’s face. “Really cute, Winchester,” he says. “But you and Castiel—that’s a two for one deal. He’ll show.”

                Dean gives him a thin-lipped smile, but he’s not so sure. Normally he’d be keeping the demon talking for as long as possible, waiting for Sam to show up. Knowing Sam would show up. But Castiel is MIA, has been since he left Dean in the middle of the night, and that action alone makes it hard for Dean to know when and if Castiel will get here. Makes him wonder if he can trust his temporary partner at all.

                There’s a sudden noise, a thump, somewhere behind the demon boy, who twists around quickly, the blade half-raised. The door in the wall there is closed, but Dean can guess it leads out to the yard and the road that he himself had been in before being knocked out.

                “Belial?” He calls. After a beat, “Az?”

                “Let me guess,” Dean says. “You were supposed to guard the front entrance, right?”

                The boy  gives him a nasty look and walks over to the door, opening it an inch or so suspiciously before throwing it all the way open. Dean squints out into the empty yard too, but sees nothing.

                The demon looks left, right, then steps out the door altogether, disappearing to the side. Almost simultaneously, Dean feels a slight breath of air behind him. He feels the tension in his shoulders suddenly drop away, evaporate.

                “I could kick your ass right now,” Dean grumbles. “You didn’t even take—”

                “—The real demon blade,” Castiel says. He sounds, if anything, more irritated. “Yes. I found out.”

                Dean cranes his neck as Castiel starts quietly sawing at the rope binding his hands. He can’t quite make out Castiel’s face, but he can see the fresh blood dotting his t-shirt, welling in a cut on his forearm.

                “Run into trouble?”

                “It’s been temporarily dealt with,” Castiel says, rather grimly. Dean doesn’t press him for more details, just listens to the determined sound of his sawing blade, knowing they only have a short window.

                So he’s surprised when Castiel bursts out with, “What the  _hell_  are you doing here, anyway?”

                “I was looking for  _you,”_ Dean says, affronted.  _“_ It’s hunting kindergarten logic, Cas—never go hunting alone!”

                “Don’t you get it?” Castiel hisses. “If anything happens to you, that falls on  _me_. You’re practically the Messiah to the most dangerous group of people in the world. You get killed on this hunt, even if it’s not my fault, and I’ll be hunted down mercilessly. Complete with a death that will make Hell seem like a vacation spot.”

                Dean, who’s not used to being counted the weak link on hunts, can feel his blood pressure rising. “So the solution is to get yourself killed alone, then?”

                “The solution—“ Cas begins hotly.

                “Nuh-uh, boys,” another voice interrupts. “Time’s up.”

                The teenage demon stands in the doorway, his gleeful voice ringing through the room. “Come on out, Castiel. Let’s see you.”

                The rope around Dean’s wrists is still secure, though somewhat looser. He can hear when the breath catches in Castiel’s throat, when the blade at his wrists freezes. He can also hear the sound of footsteps behind him, behind Castiel, like someone—or some demon—is approaching from the back entrance.

                Too late. Their window has closed.

                Castiel stands up, and Dean watches as he rounds the pillar and comes to stand in front of him, blade clenched in his fist, as he stares down the demon in the doorway.

                “Saw that you smoked Az out,” the boy says. “Old-fashioned exorcisms—now that’s rude. Thanks to Winchester and his Apocalypse heroics, a trip back to Hell is now a one-way ticket.”

                Castiel doesn’t say anything, just stands there rigid.

                “But Belial, now—even Uncle will be impressed with that bloodthirst. As he always says, once you get the taste—”

                “Shut up,” Castiel says. Even Dean raises his eyebrows. “Where is he?”

                “Belial? Right there—” the boy gestures over Castiel’s shoulder, to whoever’s behind Dean’s pillar. “Or is there another demon whose tongue you carved out lately?”

                Well. That’s one way to make sure that a demon can’t sound the alarm. Dean can hear Belial’s ragged breathing somewhere close behind him. He carefully, slowly, tries to fold his fingers over the rope, working at the frayed cut from Castiel’s knife. There’s little give.

                “Don’t play games,” Castiel says, his voice lowering dangerously. “When is he coming?”

                The boy demon gives Castiel an impish grin, and steps aside with flourish. Through the brightly lit door comes another figure—tall, slightly stooped, late fifties. The body of a former football player whose gone to seed.

                The newcomer’s eyes lock on Castiel, and then a smile slowly drags up a corner of his mouth.

                “Hello, old friend.”

**

Dean can’t see Castiel’s face, but he can guess it looks something like the twisted hatred on his face when he looked down the barrel of a gun at Azazel, or the blazing contempt in Sam’s eyes when he faced off against Lilith possessing Dean. No, he can’t see Castiel’s face, but he can see the sudden, absolute stillness of Castiel, like he’s been carved from stone.

                “So, no greeting in return,” the man says. “It’s a shame, Castiel—you were once so polite. Accommodating, even.”

                As the man prowls out of the harsh sunlight, Dean can start to pick out his features. He has the brutish, square features of a football player, too, right down to the wide nose that looks as if it’s been broken a time or two. He’s looking at Castiel with proud, black eyes—like a benevolent father, almost. The teenage demon comes to the man’s shoulder, now breathy and deferential.

                “Uncle,” he says in a wheedling voice. “Uncle, look. I did it—I captured Dean Winchester and his blade. See? He’s right over—”

                “Later, Moloch,” the man says. He never actually takes his eyes off of Castiel. “I have some business to attend to. Go guard Winchester—he’s infamous for always being up to something.”

                Practically pouting, Moloch brushes by Castiel and comes to stand near Dean, throwing him a nasty look. So, a demon behind him and in front of him—Dean has to admit, it doesn’t look good.

                Castiel slowly circles to the left, testing the blade in his grip. The man hardly looks fazed, just stands there cheerfully.

                “Oh, come now, Castiel. You’ve spent years tracking down my beloved family, sending them to Hell. Now, more than ever, you’ve gotten my attention. My poor family has no way out of Hell anymore—and my dear nieces and nephews are dwindling in number, thanks to you. So—go on, then. I’ve heard your cry for help, and I’m all ears.”

                Castiel falters in his step, but he doesn’t say anything. Dean doesn’t say anything, either—he’s worming his finger beneath the loop of the knot, now partially frayed from Castiel’s attempt at rescue.

                “Oh, your poor thing,” the man says, shaking his head. “You’ve spent years making a speech of retribution, haven’t you? And now you’ve misplaced your note cards.  Really? Nothing to say to your dear Uncle?”

                “I’m going to kill you,” Castiel says in a low voice.

                “Frankly, uninspired,” the man says.

                “Exorcizamus te, omnis—” Castiel begins, and the man flicks his wrist in a casual way, sweeping Castiel off his feet, crashing backwards into a pallet of planks.

                “I’m not mad, but I am disappointed,” Uncle says, stepping leisurely towards Castiel.

                Castiel looks up, spitting blood from his mouth. “Exorcizamuste, omnisimmundusspiritus—” He manages to say, before the man waves his arm again and sends him crashing into the wall.

                “Omnis satanic potestas, omnis inc—” Dean says, before the demon behind him has his arms around the pillar, his fingers  forcing his jaw closed with enough force to break the bone.

                “—Incursio infernalis adversarii, yes,” Uncle says. “Surely, with decades to work on this, your whole plan wasn’t to recite a nursery rhyme to me?”

                Castiel pushes himself up slowly from the floor. There’s a piece of exposed pipe on the wall, and Dean can see where the jagged metal tore open the back of his shirt, blood darkening the fabric around his right shoulder. Castiel reaches full height and switches his knife from his right hand—arm hanging limp at his side—to his uninjured hand.

                “Fuck you, Grigori,” Castiel snarls.

                “Manners, young man,” Uncle—Grigori—says, reaching forward towards him. The gesture seems strangely innocent, like he means to pet Castiel’s hair, even though his hands are large enough to wrap around necks and squeeze. Castiel’s arm moves in a blur, the blade metallically gleaming, and then he’s blown off his feet, landing heavily on his back.

                There’s a silence then, broken only by the excitable breathing by Moloch standing in front of Dean, watching the fight with avid fascination. Neither of the combatants are moving towards each other—Castiel is gasping on the ground, curled protectively over his injured shoulder, and Uncle is staring at three  faintly wriggling, pale objects on the ground.

                Dean realizes that they’re fingers.

                Grigori is no longer smiling. He kicks Castiel sharply in the side, and when Castiel tries to bring his blade up again, the man brings his foot down heavily on Castiel’s wrist. The other hand he uses to grab Castiel’s collar and half-lift him off the ground, like Castiel is light as—what? As light as his travel pillow, Dean’s moronic brain tells him at that moment.

                It occurs to him that this might be it—he might be about to see Castiel snuffed out, might be about to meet his own death at the hands of angry demons. He pulls harder at the knot behind him, hard enough that his fingers throb, for his fingernails to tear, and he still gets no purchase. The fingers are his jaw tighten when he lets out a noise of anger.

                “You see, that’s not a good idea, Castiel, because dicing this body up means I need to find a new one. And—my, how you’ve grown up. A demon could use a young, strong, disciplined body like yours.”

                “No,” Castiel says. That’s what does it—Castiel’s wide eyes, his almost childlike fear. Dean sees that face and knows he has to help, to protect, to do  _something—_ he wrenches as hard as he can with his fingers, putting all his strength into it—and, impossibly, he feels the rope start to fray apart.

                His hands break free. He immediately reaches back, and up, straining his arms, and finds the shirt of the demon behind him—it’s close, since the man is crouching to keep Dean shut up. He digs his fingers in and pulls sharply forward, hearing the satisfying thunk of the demon’s head smashing into the pillar.

                Moloch, who had been intently watching the fight, turns at the sound, and Dean sweeps his feet out from under him.

                “Cas, hold on—” Dean shouts, and grapples for the demon blade in Moloch’s hand.

                “Uncle, help!” Moloch cries, his fingers scratching deep as he tries to throw Dean off. The blade wavers between them, point glinting wickedly, and the edge bites into Dean’s palm as he wrests it close—

                “No crying Uncle,” Dean grits out, and shoves the blade in below the sternum.

                He doesn’t take the time to relish the death. He’s already pulling the blade out, standing up—he hears Belial rounding the pillar, footsteps close—but his eyes are seeking out Castiel. He’s managed to roll away, to pull himself upright, and his timing is perfect, his good arm darting out to catch the blade as Dean zings it across the room, plucking the handle from the air.

                Almost immediately, there are arms around Dean’s neck, bearing him down in a headlock. He can only watch as Castiel turns, only to find Grigori standing right behind him, his strong forearms lifted to ward off the blade, to batter Castiel away. Grigori reaching out, grasping the hunter up in his arms. This is how it ends, Dean thinks helplessly—Grigori close enough to choke the life out of Castiel, and Castiel, injured and using his left hand, unable to have the purchase to sink his blade in deep.

                But that’s when Dean learns why Castiel is, undoubtedly, the best he’s ever seen with a blade.

                Dean watches as Castiel, his face snarling and dangerous, flips the blade in his hand. He feints, twists around in Grigori’s embrace, and smashes the butt of the demon blade hard into Grigori’s face. The resulting  _crunch_  is brutal, grisly. The blade whirls again in Castiel’s hand, and he dances fluidly under Grigori’s confused defenses, ignores the hand that bears down around his neck, and with savage grace he plunges the blade deep into Grigori’s stomach.

                Grigori’s head is thrown back in a scream, his face an unrecognizable mess of pulsing light and mangled features. His hand drops away as he slides off the blade and onto the floor.

                And then Dean can only hear Castiel’s wheezing breaths and the steps of the demon Belial as he flees the room, running away.

**

                The Impala has all its tires slashed, the windshield spiderwebbed with cracks. Dean can’t even muster the energy to say more than a hollow, “fuck.”

                He and Castiel stumble back to the motel together, leaning against each others’ shoulders for support, breath harsh in their throat, as the evening sun sets.

                In the dim light of the motel room, their injuries look hardly better. Dean has a knot the size of Kentucky on his head, and his wrists are chafed, red and bleeding, from his struggles against his bonds. There a gash, thankfully not too deep, where he gripped the blade of the knife as he struggled with Moloch.

                Castiel’s a little worse off. Dean rifles through his bag and looks over in time to see Castiel painfully pulling his shirt over his head. There’s a swollen, jagged cut along the back of his shoulder, dried blood matting his shirt to his skin. The other man lets out a small, pained breath as he finally pulls the shirt free.

                “You need any help, man?”

                “No,” Castiel says shortly. “I’m used to doing it myself.”

                In the relative normalcy of their room, Dean finds himself returning to something closer to human. He recognizes the aftermath of a close call—the rising adrenaline, the giddiness that comes with luck. But Castiel does not seem so relieved. He sits himself slowly on the edge of the bed, his face as blank and drawn as ever.

                Dean bandages up his cut hand, washes the blood out of his hair. He finally ventures back out of the bathroom in time to see Castiel hissing out a breath, trying to reach over his shoulder to the injury on his back.

                “Come on, Cas,” Dean says. “Let me do something.”

                Castiel puts his hand, trembling in exertion, down in his lap. The look he gives Dean is one of someone helpless, on the edge.

                “It’s okay, Cas,” Dean says, sliding onto the bed behind him. “Trust me, okay? I’ll fix it for you.”

                Dean hasn’t seen Castiel with his shirt off before. Castiel’s bare skin is decorated with the normal markings of a hunter’s life—the scars from close call, an anti-possession tattoo curled around his hip. His skin is like a familiar landscape to Dean—it’s something he’s seen his whole life, tending to himself or Sam or John. Their version of Bronze Stars and Purple Hearts—the patchwork of pain that forms their scars of honor.

                Dean brings up  a wetted cloth and starts to gently clean the blood from the wound.

                He keeps up a conversation to distract Castiel. “So, as you can see, Baby will be out of commission for a while. I don’t have time to fix her up, and I doubt anyone in this podunk town has ever heard of rental service. But I have an idea. Sam’s not too far. I’ll get him to pick us up, drive us to civilization, and I’ll rent us a car that can get us to Klamath.”

                “Sam,” Castiel says, like that’s the only thing he got out of Dean’s comments.

                “Yeah, my brother? You’ll like him, don’t worry, if your obsession with old books has anything to show.”

                “I know who Sam is,” Castiel says. He sounds distant, not even seeming to notice as Dean rubs the cloth right over the sensitive edge of his cut. “You wish he was still hunting with you.”

                “Yeah, well,” Dean says. He puts the cloth down. “Looks like lawyering is his future now. Wait here a sec.”

                He rummages around in his bag and comes back with a flask. He takes a deep swig before passing it to Castiel.

                “Drink up, tiger. This isn’t gonna feel very pretty.”

                Castiel takes an obedient sip, then another, longer swallow. Dean watches his throat bob.

                “That’s good,” he says. “All right. Don’t worry, you’ll be back online in no time.”

                Castiel continues to sit passive, lost, all while Dean pinches and stitches and sterilizes and rubs his hand soothingly down Castiel’s bare spine. Dean can’t help but grow more worried, watching Castiel retreat into his mind. Uncle, or Grigori, or whoever the fuck, seemed  to know Castiel from before. Decades ago, he recalled Grigori saying. It’s almost like Castiel has spent his whole life on some wrathful mission, and—

                Oh. It’s almost like that’s  _exactly_  what happened.

                Dean goes to throw out the bloodied towel and finds Castiel looking over his shoulder, at the white bandage there, in mild interest.

                “Cas—” He starts.

                “What am I supposed to do now?” Castiel says. He looks up at Dean beseechingly, like Dean has all the answers. Like Dean’s a walking beacon for  _healthily_ continuing life after killing a almost life-long enemy, like Dean can take this moment to tell Castiel how to move on, how to _live a little_.

                Dean sits down next to him. “Do you want to talk about it?” He says.

                Castiel looks at him for a long moment, and then slowly shakes his head. His hand falls, pretty decisively, onto Dean’s belt.

                “Whoa—” Dean says, moving over on the bed a few feet. “I’m all into some celebrating the miracle of life, but I’m not sure now’s the best—”

                “Don’t tell me what’s best for me,” Castiel says, with some of his old fire. “It’s what I want. Do you not want to?”

                “Of course I do!” Dean says. And he does. Castiel is bare and beautiful next to him on the bed, and Dean has a special addiction to the sounds he can pull out of him. But that’s part of the problem, too. Dean’s pretty exclusively a one night stand kind of guy. Familiarity in this territory seems to different, too dangerous. “I, just—not to be a voice of reason—”

                “Sam will be here tomorrow morning,” Castiel says. “And we may be done with the wendigo in the Klamath mountains and on our separate ways by tomorrow night.”

                “So this is—what? Last hurrah sex?” Dean says. He laughs, a little nervously, but still shifts closer.

                “One-last-time sex,” Castiel says desperately, and nods. “Just tonight. Just right now.”

                “Yeah,” Dean says, senselessly, as he shifts closer, a moth to flame.

                He’s used to after-hunt sex being frenzied, violent in its passion. He’s used to it being rough and toe-curling and wild.

                But when Castiel slides back onto the bed, turning over onto his stomach, Dean stops him. He realizes he’s never seen Castiel when he comes, his face open and vulnerable in his pleasure. He’s realizing just now much he wants to hear Castiel lose himself.

                So Castiel, a little wide-eyed, settles his head back on the pillow and watches as Dean retrieves lube and a condom from his duffel. Willingly lays his leanly muscled calves over Dean’s shoulders, and watches in interest as Dean slicks his fingers up and gently presses in. Lets out a wordless little cry as Dean pumps his hand in and out, his heels pressing down into the meat of Dean’s shoulders.

                Sometime after, when Dean’s suited himself up and sunk in as far as he can go, he sits back on his heels and appreciates the sight for a moment. Castiel, with his hair mussed on the pillow and the vulnerable, concave flex of his belly and his cock, red and heavy, lying in the crease of his thigh. With his eyes so blue and determined, finally focused, finally focused on Dean alone, like he’s the only thing that matters in the world.

                They build up a rhythm, a headboard-hitting, boxsprings-squeaking rhythm that has Castiel knees pressed against either side of Dean’s head like a vise. Dean stares down the length of his body, watching the pump and give, and when he looks back up at Castiel, he’s looking too, his cheeks flushed and his teeth sunk into his bottom lip.

                Dean finds his attention caught on Castiel’s lips, his mouth. He’s kissed before, in after-hunt sex—often bloody and dirty and wet, and he realizes suddenly that he and Castiel have never kissed. Just gotten straight to business. He decides he wants to rectify that.

                He hitches Castiel’s legs up, leans forward, and presses a kiss to—Castiel’s stubbled cheek, turned to the side. He grunts a frustrated laugh and turns his head, but his kiss lands elsewhere again, now on his chin.

                He stops thrusting, pausing in disbelief.

                “All right, Pretty Woman, are we not allowed to kiss on the lips?”

                Castiel is glaring to the side, refusing to make eye contact. “It adds nothing to this,” he says. “It’s an unnecessary intimacy.”

                “An unnecessary intimacy?” Dean repeats. “Dude, I have my dick in your ass.”

                “Stop,” Castiel says. He’s thin-lipped, his jaw tight.

                Dean starts to pull away, but Castiel’s heels press into his back, refusing to let him move. Their eyes meet in challenge for a moment before Dean huffs out a sound and pushes back in.

                It’s still good, still fantastic, even, but something feels off now. Castiel’s face is still turned into the pillow, his hands clenched into fists in the fabric. Dean fucks him punishingly slow, mindful of his shoulder, watching the play of emotions over Castiel’s features, the moans he tries to bite back.

                He doesn’t want to resent Castiel for holding back—it’s still it-doesn’t-have-to-mean-anything sex, it’s still their last hurrah. He does, a little, just the same—he’d thought they were on the same page. Finally in sync.

                With a growl that surprises himself, he presses Castiel down into the mattress, grabs up one of his clenched fists. Dean presses it open, smoothes it flat on the bed, and presses a wet, sucking kiss right into Castiel’s palm.

                Castiel chokes out a startled, overcome noise and trembles through an orgasm. Dean watches his head toss on the pillow, satisfied, and comes himself, heaving harsh breaths into Castiel’s fingers.  

                Afterwards, Castiel stares in surprise as Dean lifts his lips from his palm and gives him a smug smile.

**

                They fall asleep next to each other, but sometime in the night Castiel pulls his limbs free, retreats to his own bed.

                In the morning, he’s curled into himself, his head buried somewhere beneath his pillow, and Dean watches for a moment before he leaves the room to call Sam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh. What a tropey mess this is becoming. And I have no shame.   
> I don't know who my mysterious benefactor is but SOH shot up by like 40 kudos since I was last on-- how exciting!  
> Thanks to all readers and reviewers and kudo- leavers... Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Next chapter: Dean's feelings about Sam quitting hunting come to light, Jo reveals more about Cas's past, and Cas has an untimely proposal.   
> Next, next chapter: Wendigo hunting in the Klamath mountains goes awry.


	7. Erosional

Sam arrives a little after noon, driving an unfamiliar Prius _thing_ and beaming through the windshield at Dean.

                “We’re gonna need you to stop by the Impala we so can grab our weapons,” Dean says as he slides in. “It’s only a few minutes away—and after that, we can hit the road. Oh, this is Castiel, by the way.”

                “Hi, Cas,” Sam says, twisting around in his seat to regard him. Castiel is sitting absolutely erect, painfully awkward, in the backseat.

                “Hello,” he says, and gives a strange, aborted nod in Sam’s direction. Dean is a little thrown off by the behavior until he realizes he’s been around Cas for a week and a half; the guy’s mellowed out with him. Dean had already forgotten how stiff and off-putting Castiel was when he first met someone, even taking away the hostility.

                “I’ve heard about you,” Sam says, and then hastily says, “Uh, through the grape vine. Anyways, hi. Where’s your car again, Dean?”  He ignores Dean’s raised eyebrows and waits until Dean’s guides him down side-streets until they reach Baby, pushed off the road, pitifully handicapped.

                Sam lets out a low whistle. “Someone really did a number on her,” he says, craning his neck to take in the damage.

                “Demons,” Dean says, and quickly exits the car to go pop the Impala’s trunk. He knows that Castiel thinks they’ll be up against a wendigo, but maybe he’s right in thinking it could be werewolves, too. It wouldn’t be that much of a long shot to bring some silver bullets, right? He glances over at Sam’s car, intending to ask, and is surprised to see Sam saying something to Cas, with the familiar look he would take on when interrogating people during his hunting days. Cas doesn’t seem on edge—he seems to be answering Sam’s question civilly enough. Whatever he does say seems to satisfy Sam, who turns back around and starts fiddling with the radio.

                Dean looks away quickly before either of them notice his preoccupation. What could _that_ have been about? He grabs up flare guns, matches, and yes, some silver bullets, before slamming the trunk shut and walking back to Sam’s car.

                “Looks like we’re good to go,” Dean says. Sam puts the car into drive and Dean watches in the side mirror as the damaged Impala slides out of sight.

                Cas doesn’t participate in any conversation again. He sits silent, staring out the window, as Sam and Dean tentatively start talking. It’s a little awkward, having someone else in the car, listening in and possibly judging, but the flat miles of the highway and the familiar songs playing from the radio start to loosen Dean up. Soon Sam’s regaling him with stories about his new friends and his sort-of live-in girlfriend, Casey, and Dean finds it easy to ask questions, to laugh unforced. The reunion doesn’t hurt as much as he thought it would, even though it does make him nostalgic.

                Sam is in the middle of recounting a trip to the beach with a visiting, grumpy Bobby a few months before when his phone rings. He stops mid-sentence, looking to where it’s sitting on the console.

                “No talking on the cell and driving,” Dean says, diving for the phone. “Ooh, let’s see who it is, shall we?” There’s a picture of an unfamiliar woman flashing up on the screen beneath the block letters that say CASEY. She looks younger than Sam—he mentioned that she’s an undergraduate—with a perfect smile and pretty dark red hair. Dean has to admit, Sam’s new sort-of live-in girlfriend is pretty attractive.

                He tilts the phone so Sam can see what he’s looking at. “Cute. Does she have any fr—”

                He was going to say _friends_. And then he feels really awkward, because Cas and his whatever it was, last-chance sex had only happened hours before, and he can almost feel Cas’s eyes burning into the back of his head.

                “—Free time?” He stammers out. “Maybe I could meet her.”

                Sam rolls his eyes and snatches the phone away, angling it to his ear.

                “Yeah, _that’s_ what you were gonna say,” he snorts.

                 In the side mirror, Dean can see Cas, but the other man isn’t looking at him, regardless of the phantom lingering touch on the back of Dean’s head. Cas is still turned towards the window, looking completely unmoved.

                “Hey,” Sam’s saying. “I just picked him up. Uh huh. No, he’s on a business trip. Maybe he can swing back when he’s done, okay?”

                Dean watches the way Sam can lie so effortlessly, and wonders if it’s truly possibly to leave all aspects of the hunting life behind.

                “All right. Love you,” Sam says. He flushes a bit. “No, _I_ love you. Okay, bye—” He quickly fumbles his phone closed.

                “Wow,” Dean says.

                “Shut up.”

                “All I said was _wow_.”

                “Look, just because _your_ version of saying ‘I love you’ is giving the Impala an oil change—”

                “Oh, like you don’t change _Casey’s_ oil.”

                “Dean, go stick it in a tail pipe.”

                “You’re very funny,” Castiel remarks, offputtingly sincere. It’s the first thing he’s said since Dean got back in the car. “You two can banter.”

                “Er, yeah,” Sam says, after a short silence. “I think Dean has that kind of relationship with everyone, you know? Friendly rejoinders, and whatnot.”

                “No,” Cas says. He sounds very sure of himself as he turns back to his post at the window. “I’m not funny.”

                Dean cocks an eyebrow over at his brother, who shrugs, and after a few moments the conversation straggles back. Sam finishes his story about dragging a very winter-pale, bashful Bobby into the water at the beach, how he tried to suck in his gut every time a woman walked by. Their easy conversation, even with all the things left unsaid, has no tension to it.

                The hours to Berkeley seem to fly by—and even though Dean has no illusions, it’s almost like the old days again, just Sam and Dean and everything that made them brothers against the world.

                “Home sweet home,” Sam announces that evening as he passes a sign welcoming them to Berkeley. “Hey, how about I give you a tour of my place? You can grab something to eat there, and then you can go pick up a car—”

                “Can you drop me off at a motel, please?” Cas interrupts. “I’m tired, and I don’t need a tour.”

                It’s not exactly rude, but Dean is still annoyed by the tactlessness. Not that Sam would be offended, and it’s not like Castiel is a reflection on Dean, either—well. Not much of one, anyway.

                “Oh,” Sam says. His eyes go to the rearview. “Are you sure? If you’re hungry…”’

                “I’m not,” Castiel says. “And I’m sure you and Dean have a lot to catch up on.”

                Dean can’t help but give Cas a narrow-eyed look when Sam pulls in front of the Seaside Motel and Castiel hops out with a nod in their direction. He can give credit where credit’s due, but he never saw Castiel as a paragon of emotional perceptivity. Giving them space to talk—really? He’s used to Castiel blundering over peoples’ boundaries and glaring like it’s his job.

                “Well, looks like it’s just us,” Sam says. “How hungry are you? I scoped out a few places I know you’ll like, and I have burgers back home—”

                “Cas will probably blow a gasket if I’m gone too long,” Dean says. And then, because he feels like he’s being unfair, he says defensively, “But, you know, it’s because we’re on a hunt. And we’ve already gotten sidetracked by a hunt with the Patels and some demons, you know?”

                “Yeah, gotta stay focused,” Sam says. “Well, my place cool? It’ll save time—”

                So Sam drives them to his new apartment, which is a brick townhouse in a row of lookalikes. He’s beaming as he ushers Dean in, proudly showing Dean the living room, the office that’s already filled with his books, and the bedroom that him and the mysterious Casey share together.

                “I’ve grown to really appreciate the small things,” Sam says as he defrosts patties. “Like, the water bill is so high because I take all the hot water for my showers. Casey hates it. And look—a garbage disposal! I never knew how much I wanted or needed a garbage disposal until I moved into this apartment.”

                “How you survived through childhood without a garbage disposal is beyond me,” Dean remarks from the table.                

                “I know you’re kidding, but I’m serious. Just you wait, Dean. You’ll retire one day, settle down, and you’ll be struck by the weirdest need for, like, a vacuum or a Brita filter. Don’t laugh— I don’t fucking know.”

                Dean kicks his feet up. “We’ll see. Hunting’s still on the radar for the foreseeable future.”

                Sam’s smile falters a little. “Well. Someday, then. You’ll see what I’m talking about.”

                “Sure,” Dean says. He watches as Sam opens the door of the microwave. “So, glad to hear that Bobby came out here.  Do you keep in touch with anyone else from the old days?”

                “No, not really,” Sam says. “Bobby and you—that’s family. But I think word got out that I dropped hunting, so when someone needs help, they bypass me and go straight to you.” He shrugs. “It’s definitely easier to feel retired when people aren’t calling you with questions on how to kill rugarus every other day.”

                He fiddles with his stove-top grill for a second, his brow furrowed. “Oh, and Jo. She called me a few weeks ago.”

                Dean’s head snaps up. “Jo? You’ve talked to Jo?”

                “You haven’t?”

                “She skipped out on Ellen,” Dean says. “And it’s kind of hard to call _her_ because I don’t know what pay phone, let alone what state, she’s in. Is she okay?”

                “Yeah. Last I heard, she and her indoctrinated hunter boyfriend were taking on ghouls in Tennessee. She seemed happy.” Sam pauses, his spatula in the air. “That’s why I knew who Cas was as soon as you told me his name.”

                “Oh yeah?” Dean says. “So, uh, what did she have to say about him?”

                “It was more just in passing, talking about why she got fed up with Ellen,” Sam says slowly. “She said Ellen reamed out Cas for no reason, and Jo was sick of feeling babied.”

                “Well,” Dean says. “I wouldn’t say _no_ reason. Cas has a habit of leaving people without warning.”

                Sam gives him an unimpressed look. “Actually, it was. Jo says they stumbled across some demons and one of them was familiar with Castiel. Taunting Cas about some really twisted history—an uncle that killed his whole family. Anyways, the demon got away and Jo insisted that Cas tracked it down after hearing all of that. She thought she could handle the other demon by herself. Well, two more demons showed up and she was pretty stuck until some hunters in the area gave her some backup.” He flips a patty. “And that’s all I know. I told Cas in the car today that I’d talked to Jo, and he told me that he was able to finish off that demon, after all.”

                “Oh,” Dean says. He’s still stuck on the fact that Sam knows something he didn’t—that Castiel’s whole family was killed off by this Uncle, this Grigori, that Castiel had knifed not even a full day before. It’s only because a demon chose to get chatty, not Cas himself, and Sam heard it secondhand, too, but still. It makes Dean feel like he’s been traveling with a stranger.

                “He seems like an okay guy,” Sam says. He’s not looking at Dean. “Cas, that is. Kinda intense. But it’s probably good to have a really focused partner.”

                Dean huffs out a laugh. “Are you fishing for a compliment?”

                “No!” Sam says. “I just know you’ve been cycling through partners. Just, you know, making small talk.” He turns away abruptly to grab some plates from a cabinet.

                “Sam,” Dean says. “You don’t need to compare yourself. Each of my partners has been like a snowflake. Unique and different in their own special ways—“

                “Shut up,” Sam says, but without any real heat. He slides a plate in front of Dean and sits down. He picks up his burger, then puts it back down. “I don’t know. I’ll be completely honest. I do miss it sometimes. There, I said it. I miss being on the road with you.”

                It’s something that Dean’s wanted to hear, but it feels out of place in this very real apartment, with Sam’s newly acquired books and garbage disposal and girlfriend.  It’s almost like too little, too late. Good on Sam for realizing that. Dean’s only spent the last year lamenting the fact that he can’t trust any partner as much as Sam, or get along with them half so well, or know them as well as he did Sam.

                “Yeah?” Dean says. “You ever want to go back?”

                “Sometimes,” Sam says. “Hunting had its perks, you know? It had its pretty basic rules—good versus evil, the best man wins. And it wasn’t all blood and death—those times when we  would just be driving, sight-seeing, listening to music—those were the best times. And I couldn’t take those moments for granted, because even then we’d be driving towards our next potential date with death. In some ways, life was easier.”

                He takes a contemplative bite, chewing his burger slowly. “I miss it, but at the same time, I don’t. I can’t explain it. Just sometimes I get—antsy. And then I feel guilty that I do.”

                Dean sits frozen, staring at his plate. “I, um,” he says, and clears his throat. “I’ve missed you with me too. It’s weird, going from being with you every day to barely talking. Like we’re strangers—”

                “That was on me,” Sam says hurriedly. “I knew you’d probably be mad, because I didn’t tell you. I thought you would want some space—”

                “Yeah,” Dean says. “Yeah. That was probably smart. I was pretty pissed.”

                They drop into silence for another moment. Sam says, lowly, “It’s not like I wanted to keep it a big secret, Dean. But you never really seemed to get it. You just had tunnel vision about this hunting thing, like we were going to be going at it together for the next three decades, easy, and I didn’t know how else to break it to you.”

                “Hunting _thing_?” Dean repeats. He feels a pulse of anger. “It’s called my job, Sammy. It’s called my life.”

                “Yeah, well, not much of one,” Sam says. “I don’t want it for you and I didn’t want it for me, either.”

                “Thanks,” Dean says. “Glad to hear your real opinions.”

                Sam pushes his plate to the side. “Fine. You want a real opinion? I came back because you  and dad needed me. But when is it enough with you guys? It wasn’t killing Azazel, it wasn’t even stopping the fucking Apocalypse. I did my time, okay? I think saving the world should mean I can do what I want when it’s all done, and not be resented for it. But you just won’t quit. There won’t be anything supernatural left to hunt and you probably _still_ won’t quit, because you don’t know how to leave that life.”

                “Yep. Just poor sad sack me,” Dean says. “Resident alcoholic, general fuck-up, with nothing but his GED and his inability to let go, and let’s not forget— his weird clinging dependency on his little brother.”

                Sam’s face twists. “That’s not what I mean.”

                “I don’t know how else you could mean,” Dean says.

                Sam looks away, and after a few moments picks his burger back up and starts eating it. Dean does the same, although he’s too worked up and bitter to taste anything. Sam takes his plate, picks up Dean’s too, and walks to the sink with them.

                “I don’t want to fight,” he says helplessly. “I wasn’t trying to start anything. Just—fuck, Dean. Can’t I be happy here? Don’t I deserve that?”

                “Of course you do,” Dean says, but it sounds hollow.

                “Well, I want to be happy. I’m working on it. I want you to be happy—however it is you find it. And just because I’m not in the passenger seat anymore doesn’t mean we can’t both be there for each other, can’t be _brothers_. It sucks having you think I’ve let you down.”

                “You haven’t let me down.”

                “Yeah, I have. Not talking to me for months is a pretty clear hint.”

                Dean rubs a hand down his face. “Christ. Look, you’re right. You’re entitled to your own life, with or without me in it.”

                “Well, I want you in it,” Sam says fiercely.

                “Fine,” Dean says, throwing his hands up in frustration. “We’re being dumb. It won’t be like last time, okay? I’m in it.”

                “Okay,” Sam says. He sounds relieved, and Dean decides his grin is insufferably dopey and earnest. “Good. Great.”

                Dean snorts out a laugh and comes to the sink, helping Sam load the dishwasher. Sam is still grinning, and Dean shoves his face away.

                “Well,” Dean says, trying to school his own expression. “I probably will have time to swing down after the thing in Klamath, okay? It probably won’t be for a few days.”               

                “Okay,” Sam nods. “Great. I’ll make dinner plans for us. You can bring Cas too, you know.”

                Dean gives him a quick look, but it seems Sam is offering because he knows Cas will be in the car with Dean regardless, not because he suspects anything. “We’ll see,” he says noncommittally. “I need to make sure we don’t turn into wendigo chow first.”

                “A wendigo?” Sam repeats. He sounds a little nostalgic. “You brought the flare guns, then?”

                “Yeah, and some s’more supplies, too,” Dean says. “You sure you don’t want to join?” 

                He’d said it jokingly, but Sam even seems to consider it for a second, his expression wistful.

                “No,” he says finally. “I’ve left that behind, I think.”

                So he has. And even if Dean doesn’t resent him for it anymore, seeing his home and his happiness and his new life makes it abundantly clear just how far Sam’s left it behind, just how much he’s moved on.

**

                Sam gives him a lift to the Seaside Motel. He has to ask the desk person which room “Barney Semple” is in—the name on Castiel’s credit card—and finally finds his way to Cas’s room on the second floor.

                When he opens the door, he’s surprised to see Cas waiting up on him, looking eager and nervous.

                “Dean,” he says. “I want to talk to you about something.”

                “Uh, okay,” Dean says, thrown by the shift in attitude. When they’d dropped Cas off, he seemed default grumpy and also quiet. He doesn’t know what brought on this mood.

                Cas nods, looks Dean full in the face, and says, “I’ve thought about it a lot, and I believe we complement each other in good ways. The past week has shown that we can work very effectively with each other. I don’t think that’s just by chance. If you agree, I think we should become permanent partners. We can tell Ellen when we get back.”

                He looks expectantly at Dean.

                “Um,” he says. “Cas, uh, did you just propose to me?”

                Cas’s brow draws down. “No. This is a business decision. If you’d like, I can show you the pros and cons list I drew up.”

                “No,” Dean says. “That’s fine. Uh, Cas, that’s really flattering.” His brain seems to flatline there, right when he needs it most. They stare at each other for a second, Dean becoming more and more uncomfortable.

                “Cas,” he says gently. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

                “I didn’t think so at first, either,” Cas steamrolls. “There wasn’t much to laud in our first days together. But then I thought about that last hunt, the one with Grigori. We worked so well together, Dean. Without even ever discussing it, we were able to assist each other at every setback. That kind of trust and knowledge with each other isn’t something you get with any random partner you’re assigned with on a hunt. I’ve never had it with someone else before.”

                “Cas,” Dean tries again. It’s hard to look into Cas’s determined face, convinced of his own logic, and shoot him down. “I mean, that’s all true. Well, before that, you ran off without telling me, and stole my demon blade, and then I got trussed up to a pillar, which is why there were setbacks. But yeah, that was a pretty great hunt.”

                He takes a breath. “But, Cas, I’m not sure that’s a good basis for what you want. I mean, most hunting partners are husband and wife teams, or family. Like the Patels. Or me and Sam.”

                Cas frowns. “I don’t know what that has to do with anything. I’m a good hunter—I can get answers out of witnesses, I am familiar with all the lore, and you’ve seen that I’m one of the best with blades. Besides that, I get along with you, I can protect you best, and our skills are compatible.”

                Dean can feel a headache start to form. “Dude, you don’t have to give me a resumé. Where is this coming from?”

            Cas shifts on his feet, some insecurity appearing on his face for the first time. “Because the hunt will be over soon, I guess. What are you not sure of, Dean? We can talk through it.”

            “I just—didn’t know you were thinking that seriously of us sticking around,” Dean starts. “Because I haven’t thought about it. At all. So this is a surprise.”

            “That’s fine. You can think about it,” Cas says, nodding hurriedly. But Dean thinks by the way he’s talking—too fast, heaping on more and more words, like he only has a small period of time he can say all this—that he isn’t really listening to Dean at all. “I think we’re good for each other, Dean. You’re able to call me out, and talk me down, when I need it. You can keep doing that—I know I’m not easy to be around. And I’m able to replace Sam for you—”

            “What?” Dean says incredulously.

            “Well, not replace him,” Castiel says, backtracking. “I only meant—”

            “No, I know what you mean. Is this what it’s all about? You got weird because Sam was around today and you’re—what? Trying to stake a claim? Prove your position in my life?”

            “No,” Cas says, looking at him imploringly. “It’s not like that. I’m well aware that your  relationship with me is different than your relationship with Sam.”

            “Damn straight,” Dean says. “You know how it’s different? When I said hunting partners are normally _family_ , I meant they normally mean something to each other. They trust each other implicitly. They know everything about each other. They know what the other one will do before they even do it.”

            Cas is still nodding , intent, like he’s studying for a pop quiz, and it only incites Dean to plow on. “Don’t you get it? I don’t know a damn thing about you. It’s a chore getting you to even say two words in a row. I’ve known you a week—you think I can trust you? Half our week has been getting at each others’ throats, you’re a control freak—”

            He stops himself abruptly. “Okay, let’s not get into it. I just don’t think it’s a good idea, okay? Period.”       

            “No, tell me,” Cas says. “I can change. I’ll be more likable, I’ll try to be more open—”

            “Dammit, Cas,” Dean says. “Just stop, okay? You can’t replace Sam. Sam is my brother, my best friend. I would lay down my life for him, and he would do the same. There’s not even a question about it.”

            He gestures between them. “You say this is the best hunt you’ve ever had. Well, that’s pretty damn sad. Because what you see as signs of a great partnership between us, I see as perfectly average. You’re  no better and no worse than the hunters I’ve been paired up with before, or the ones that are gonna come afterwards. Just because I’ve been the only partner that doesn’t ditch you at the first chance—Jesus, Cas, just because I’ve been the first to wait out you being an asshole, or treat you with some common decency—”

            “Dean,” Cas says. He’s sitting now, on the edge of the bed, not making eye contact. Dean’s finger is poking into his chest and he doesn’t know when that happened.. “You can stop. I understand.” Dean’s staring. “You can stop.”

            After another moment, he retracts his finger. “Christ,” he says. “I need a drink.”

            He turns around in a circle, unsure, and when Cas doesn’t say anything he leaves the room, shutting the door hastily behind him.

**

            He never does get that drink. Or, at least, he never drinks it. Instead, Dean stares into it, head still spinning, wondering where all the warning signs were.

            It seemed so ridiculous, laughable, even, after coming from seeing Sam to watching this virtual stranger make a desperate bid to shack up with Dean for the foreseeable future. Everything Dean said, he meant. He hadn’t necessarily meant to say all of it, but still.

            But still. Now, in retrospect, he remembers Cas’s nervous excitement, his insistence on showing Dean his pros and cons list. Cas had really been deliberating on spending years to come at Dean’s side. For business reasons, he had said, but Dean can’t ignore the undercurrent of their relationship with each other—their mutual attraction, or the times they’d had sex. Cas had said just last night that he wasn’t looking for anything to be unnecessarily intimate. And yet, he seemed to have changed his mind. Business or not, he wanted more from Dean.

            Dean had rejected the idea—he thinks most of his fellow hunters would have done the same, without another thought. Cas was notorious for being insufferable. Yet Dean alone had seen something that the others hadn’t. He’d seen Cas at his worst, at his lowest, at his most vulnerable. That had to count for something.

            The longer he sits there, the more uncomfortable he feels. Cas hadn’t seemed to want anything _more_ from Dean. He was willing to completely change, to unmake his personality and his hang-ups and his way of life, if Dean would have him. That wasn’t a partnership. That was admitting he was the charity case, the bruised fruit, offering himself up to Dean to take whatever parts he liked.

            Dean feels a blaze of anger, then, and also a lot of guilt. He could have treated the whole thing better. He could have done better than basically suggest Cas was an idiot for thinking he could even breathe the same air as him. He also could have held off on the comparisons with Sam, because _of course_  Cas wasn’t Sam. Dean hasn’t known Cas his whole life like he knew Sam. He also has done quite a few things with Cas that he would never in a million years do with his brother.

            Of course. So. What Cas had been asking for—even if he’d been too persistent and pushy and _Cas_ about the whole thing—was to give him a chance. And Dean had overlooked, then, that in some ways Cas _had_ been better than a lot of his former partners. They’d hunted together in perfect tandem. They’d stitched each other up and calmed each other down and worked around each others’ edges.

            So maybe Sam had moved on. Dean was coming to terms with that. But in the mean time, he didn’t have to leave an empty space at his side, a sacred shrine to his brother, for the rest of his life. He could move on, too. He wasn’t looking for a new brother. He was looking for a new start.

            He gets up and walks back to the Seaside Motel. What Cas wanted was a chance. Dean wasn’t positive he wanted to spend years with Cas in the passenger seat yet. But would it hurt to give it another try—even to give it another week?

            When he walks into the motel room, Cas is calmly tucking a flare gun into the backpack.

            “Good, you’re back,” he says, without turning around. “Ellen called. Apparently park rangers picked up a half-starved, ranting man this side of the Klamath range about an hour ago. Ellen thinks it’s Buckle—one of the hunters that disappeared.”

            “Oh, okay,” Dean says. “He might know what we’re facing. We should get our rental and hustle up there.”

            “Yes,” Cas says. He zips up his backpack and turns to look at him. “I’m ready when you are.”

            Dean pauses, double-takes, at Cas’s expression. He’s used to Cas being pretty impassive, hard to read, but this look is something else. Like Dean’s a stranger—Cas’s eyes regard him blankly, impersonally.

            “Look, man, before we go, I just wanted to say—”

            “ Is this about Before?” Cas asks, stressing the word like it happened years past, instead of forty five minutes ago. “I wanted your complete honesty. You gave it. I’m glad there are no misunderstandings now.”

            It’s a testament to how well Dean knows Cas now that he knows Cas is upset. His words are completely polite, almost emotionless in delivery. And even though his face is free of any feeling, it’s the complete smoothness of it that throws him. Like talking to a robot.

            “It’s not that I wasn’t being honest. But I do think we need to talk—Cas, if you still want to—”

            “What I want to do,” Cas says politely, “Is leave as soon as possible so we can talk to Buckle at the Klamath ranger station. Is that what you want to do?”

            “Well, yes,” Dean says. “That, too.”

            “Good,” Cas says. “I’ll call the rental company.”

            He nods to Dean and steps out of the room.

            “Fuck,” Dean says, looking around the room. Nothing by appearance has changed, but he can still remember barely an hour before, when Cas’s face was wide-eyed with hope, when his hands sketched the air as he laid out his proposal. Apparently, in the time that Dean reached his decision at the bar, Cas had been doing some thinking here, too.

            Oh, well. Dean’s come a long way, and not just in miles, since Sam picked them up this morning. Once this hunt is over and dealt with, he’ll have plenty of time to talk to Cas and set things right.

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, friends. A necessary growing chapter! Poor Cas needs to value himself, even if all of hunter-dom does think Dean's All That by comparison. And Dean needed to come to terms with his Sammy issues!  
> Thanks again to all and everybody :)  
> Next chapter: Wendigo hunting with a special twist, confessions, and a call to Sam.  
> Next, next chapter: Someone's got some 'splaining to do. Dean makes a decision.


	8. Anchialine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick update, because I'm either very nice or very cruel.  
> Last chapter consensus seemed to be that Dean needs to be punched in face. I concur!

“So,” Dean says on the way to Klamath. “Look. About the whole becoming-permanent-partners thing—”

            “I’d really rather not talk about it again,” Cas says, still aggressively polite.

            “No, I get that. It’s just—you surprised me, is all. I thought about it some more—”

            “Dean,” Cas says distantly. “There’s nothing else to say.” And then he turns in his seat and lays his head against the window, effectively ending the conversation.

            Well. Dean knows that rejection sucks. Hadn’t he felt in a similar situation, months ago with Sam, when Sam wanted something for himself and Dean was oblivious? So he twiddles with the radio and doesn’t bring it up again—they’ll have time for that later.

            They reach the Klamath ranger station late that afternoon. Dean stops over at a rest stop and they change into their as yet unused suits. Cas emerges from his stall with his tie askew, turned around, but Dean chooses not to say anything. Just gives an approving nod, and they hop back in the rental.

            “Right-o,” Dean says, a little awkwardly, outside the station. “We’re agents Rogers and Barnes from the FBI. We’re concerned about the number of missing persons cases from this area, and we’ve come to ask Buckle if he saw anything suspicious while he was in the woods. That should keep the rangers of our backs.”

            “Fine,” Cas says. He takes his fake ID from Dean and tucks it into his breast pocket. Dean watches, looking at his straight shoulders in his suit, the crisp, flat stretch of his shirt tucked into his pants. Cas actually looks kinda hot as an FBI agent, all things considered. “Ready?”

            Dean blinks, shaking his head a little. “Um, yeah,” he says. “Let’s go.”

            Inside the station, there’s a female ranger who only gives their badges cursory glances before gesturing to a closed door behind her. “He’s completely incomprehensible,” she shrugs. “He wouldn’t answer a single question straight. But, you know, go for it, officers.”

            Dean and Cas step into the small office. Buckle, who Dean has only met once, years before, is hunched into a worn blanket, looking warily up at their entrance.  His face is unhealthily thin, sunken, with a wild growth of beard. There’s a Snickers bar and a cup of coffee, both untouched, sitting on the desk in front of him.

            “Hey,” Dean says, once the door’s closed. “Buckle, remember me? It’s Dean Winchester.”

            Buckle twitches his head a little, too vaguely to know whether it’s a gesture of assent or not. Dean sits down on the side of the desk. “Look, Ellen sent me. She said you and Hardy were missing for weeks. What’s going on?”

            “Hardy,” Buckle says after a moment. “ _Hardy_.”

            “Yeah, Hardy,” Dean says. “Is he alive? Where is he?”

            “Hardy,” the hunter says, looking down at his hands. His eyes, still sunken and glassy, seem to be the only alive part of him. “We were on the Ridge, we were hunting—and then—” He draws in a gasp, shaking his head.

            Dean turns to look at Cas, maybe have a moment of mutual despair, but Cas is putting a concentrated effort into not looking at him. Instead, he’s looking over Hardy’s head, at a map that’s stuck with pins. Dean move closer, seeing that the map is the topography of the Klamath mountains.

            “The rangers must be using these pins to represent the missing hikers,” Dean says aloud. He swivels Buckle’s chair around, ignoring his surprised sound. “Hey, Bucky, you’ve been near any of these places?”

            Buckle squints at the map. He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes are moving rapidly, looking from pin to pin.

            “The attacks seem to be in a relatively concentrated area,” Dean says. He hooks a pencil from a jar on the desk and approaches the map. “Look, if I drew a circle from this middle point here—” His pencil squeaks as he changes the angle—“All of the missing people were within ten miles of, uh, Pike’s Peak and its surrounding mountains. That can’t be a coincidence, that they’ve all disappeared from the same area.”

            “That’s still ten miles in every direction that we’d be looking for a clue,” Cas says. “That’s a lot of ground to cover.”

            “Yeah,” Dean says. He scoots Buckle’s chair closer to the map with his foot. “Look, you don’t even have to talk. Just show us where you were when everything went to hell, okay?”

            Buckle squints at him for a moment, then extracts a wavering hand from the folds of his blanket. His finger comes down within the circle Dean drew, right on top of a small mound with small, bold lettering that says Cooper’s Point.

            “Is that where Hardy is?” Dean asks.

            Buckle nods.

            “Buckle, what’s got him? Is it a wendigo? Werewolves?”

            At that moment, the ranger from before opens the door. “Sorry, officers, but the ambulance is here for him. We’ve gotta got him transferred to a hospital.”

            “Yeah, sure,” Dean says. He’s still looking at Buckle, trying to force him to talk through the force of his glare, but the other hunter seems to have completely forgotten about them. He’s staring down at his lap, ignoring them. “Thanks for your time.”

            The ranger steps aside to let them out, and Dean and Cas reluctantly follow, still staring back at the silent man.

            “Hardy, too,” the man mutters to himself. “Didn’t expect to.”

            “He’s been repeating that since last night,” the ranger shrugs. “But nothing he says makes sense.”

            Dean smiles, says some gracious goodbyes, and then follows Cas out to the rental car.

            “So Buckle’s got his eggs scrambled,” he says. “And I’d say Hardy is good as dead. Whatever got them shook him up pretty bad, huh?”

            “He probably saw his partner die,” Cas says.

            “Yeah,” he says. Then he shrugs out of his suit coat and turns the key in the ignition.

            It takes about an hour and a half, mostly uphill driving, to find their way to Cooper’s Point. The roads are steep and narrow, and sometimes Dean had to pull over to let a car pass. The farther they ascend, though, the cars become fewer and fewer, and the afternoon is melting into evening by the time Dean pulls up to a faded sign that depicts an arrow pointing three miles up the path towards the point.

            They change outside, on opposite sides of the car, silent except for the muffled rustling of their clothes. Once Dean’s got his jeans and his flannel back on, he tucks a flare gun into the back of his jeans, matches into his pocket, and a silver knife into his boot.

            Cas comes around, waiting at the hood, holding a flashlight in his hand.

            “Nice thinking ahead, Boy Scout,” Dean says, gesturing to the already darkening sky.

            Cas just frowns and sets on down the path, leaves crunching beneath their feet.

            “So are we just gonna be wandering bait?” Dean says aloud. “Or do you have any ideas where to start looking?”

            “I still believe that Buckle and Hardy were captured together,” Cas says. He unfurls a park map from his pocket, angling it towards the light. “He said he knew his partner was here _on_ Cooper’s Point, which is very specific.”

            “Maybe this is where they got attacked,” Dean shrugs.

            “No, Buckle says that was on the Ridge,” Cas says, moving his finger over a serrated line a few inches over. “The only way he could  have known he and Hardy were on Cooper’s Point is if, as he escaped, he saw one of the park signs.” He gestures over to the sign where their rental is parked, which does read in huge script, COOPER’S POINT. It would be hard to  miss, even if someone was terrified and wired as they passed it.

                Dean looks up at Cas, impressed.

                “You think?”

                “Well, there are only two paths that lead to Cooper’s Point, and we’re on one of them. Buckle must have stumbled across one of the paths as he was running away, and saw the sign. Which means he was either on this path sometime yesterday, or the one on the opposite side of the Point. Either way, his tracks should be fresh.”

                Dean stares at him.

                “What?”

                “Nothing, man,” Dean says. “Brains are sexy.” He means it as a joke, to break the strange tension between them, but Cas doesn’t even look at him, doesn’t show any reaction to show he even heard it. Just tucks his map back in his pocket and walks away.

                They’ve walked for about ten minutes when Dean’s attention is drawn to a flattened bush on the side of the path. Beyond that, he can see a trail of crushed plants—a bent branch, a trampled plant. It was evident that someone, or something, had wandered onto the path here. To fit Cas’s theory, it could have been Buckle.

                “What do you think?” Dean says, gesturing to the broken foliage. Cas stoops, squinting at the ground, and brushes away some leaves. Imprinted in the ground is a shoe print.

                “Looks about the right size,” Dean says, craning his neck. He refrains from comparing Cas to a Mountie again. “Let’s check it out.”

                They venture off the path as the sun sets over the trees. They do blunder off at one point, and have to turn around when the trail turns cold. A branch does somehow, mysteriously thwack back into Dean’s face by accident. But, eventually, they are able to follow the path up a steep hill, over a shallow stream, until the trees thin out and they’re facing the tall, imposing face of the cliff.

                “Son of a bitch,” Dean says. Cas turns, an eyebrow cocked, and Dean points.

                Cas follows his line of sight, his confusion apparent until his eyes, too, fall upon the dark hole set deep into the stone.

                “What do you bet that we have to go in there?” Dean says.

**

                They have to go in there.

                The cave is only about fifteen feet up the cliff, and there are enough handholds and crevices that the climb wasn’t too bad. The entrance is smaller, enough so that they both have to stoop, but farther in the whole place expands—the roof too high up to touch, the walls faintly glistening, and the gloomy _plunk_ of water dripping somewhere nearby.

                They turn a corner and the cave becomes pitch black. Cas switches on his flashlight, and they continue in silence, treading carefully on the slick stone.

                Dean can’t guess how far into the cliff they’ve walked, or how long it’s been since they entered the cave. His eyes are adjusting to the small circle of Cas’s flashlight, and he’s listening as hard as he can for even the slightest breath, the smallest rustle, that might hint they have company.

                “Oh,” Cas says suddenly. Dean’s hand flies to the flare gun, but he sees Cas isn’t reacting. His beam is steadily trained onto some bundle on the ground.

                “I think that’s Hardy,” Dean says after a long moment. His clothes are badly ripped, his limbs bare to bone. Above the skeleton, only his face is untouched, and Dean recognizes the dark mullet, the piercing in one bloodless ear.

                Cas considers the body for another moment, and then his flashlight lifts away. “We must be close.”

                Dean steps closer, speaking lowly in his ear. “I think you’re right. Wendigo.”

                Cas tilts his head slightly away. “Yes.”

                “But that doesn’t explain the accelerated kidnapping—why would a wendigo take so many victims—”

                “Dean, _please_ stop breathing down my neck,” Cas says, swinging around to glare at him. The flashlight beam falls right into his face, so Dean curses and pushes his arm away, knocking the beam up—

                “Oh,” Cas says again. The light is now trained high over Dean’s head, and he’s staring at something there.

                “What?” Dean says. Cas doesn’t say anything—he suddenly grabs Dean’s arm, yanking him away, and there’s the sudden _hiss_ and _pop_ of the flare gun going off, and Dean hears a hair-raising roar of fury from behind him, even before he turns around and sees a tall, misshapen creature ducking away from the shooting, sparking flare, red sparks showering down over them from the cave ceiling—

                “Fuck!” Dean says, scrambling for his own flare gun as they sprint around a turn in the cave. The flash light beam is dancing and skittering over the walls as Cas runs, and maybe it’s just Dean’s imagination, for a moment he thinks he sees a bright spray of red covering the rock before the light jitters away again.

                There’s another loud roar from behind them, load enough to make pebbles skitter to the ground around them, causing Dean to pant out another “Jesus _Christ_ ,” giving him another burst of adrenaline. Cas slips, scrambles, on the wet rock and Dean hauls him upright without breaking stride, pushing him forward into—

                The cave widens into a room as large and vaulted as a church. Cas’s flashlight bounces around, looking for another way out, but there seems to be openings in the rock everywhere—some as wide as train tunnels, others as slim as a broom closet. It’s impossible to tell where the tunnels would lead

                “What the fuck,” Dean pants out. “Did we lose it?”

                “I don’t know,” Cas says grimly. He’s still swiveling around, checking each tunnel in turn. So far, there’s nothing, but for every tunnel he illuminates, there’s another twenty or so left dark, where the wendigo could be creeping forward. Dean presses closes against Cas’s back, readjusting his sweaty grip on the gun.

                There’s a thin, soft wail somewhere behind them, causing Cas’s flashlight to jump over.

                “I think—” Cas says. “There could be some victims still left alive. For later, you know.”

                They hesitantly creep forward, but another soft sound echoes behind them, causing them to spin around. From the other side of the cave there’s a soft, plaintive call for help.

                Cas’s flashlight bounces back and forth. “Maybe you should go help them,” he says. “I’ll get these ones.”

                “What? In the dark?” Dean demands. “Fuck, no.”

                “So we leave them to get eaten alive?” Cas says. “We don’t have much time.”

                Even as he speaks, the voices echo again—“Help, please, somebody!”

                And from across the room, a woman crying desperately—“Oh, god, _please_ —is someone there?”

                “Dean,” Cas says, walking forward a few steps, “We can’t afford to—”

                “Wait.” Dean’s hand shoots out, gripping Cas tight around the bicep. The other hunter tries to flinch away, but Dean only tightens his hold. “Get away from there, Cas.”

                “Dean, what—”

                “Wendigos can mimic their victims, Cas,” Dean says. He’s still drawing Cas away, closer to the middle of the room, ignoring his protests. “They’re trying to lure us apart.”

                “ _They_?” Cas repeats.

                Dean reaches over and switches off the flashlight. “Yeah, _they._ Remember? Buckle said, didn’t expect _two_.”

                The bright golden remnant of the flashlight beam fades away, and the overwhelming blackness of the cave seeps in. Dean swivels around, shoes squeaking slightly on the wet stone, when he sees it.

                A pair of glowing red eyes, strangely disembodied, appears from across the room. Behind him, he hears the sharp intake of Cas’s breath. There, past Cas, another pair of red eyes emerges from the gloom, stalking forward.

**

                “Cas,” Dean whispers. “You got your flare?”

                “Yeah,” Cas says back. His voice is steady, and he can feel Cas’s arm tensing against his where he’s reloading his flare by memory.  

                “When I say so, aim for the wendigo in front of you,” Dean says. He levels his gun over Cas’s shoulder. “One, two, _three—”_

Their guns go off in tandem, both aiming for the wendigo approaching from Cas’s side. The bright red flare of light makes Dean have to squint his eyes away, even as he drags Cas out of the open and towards one of the openings in the walls that he can see in the shower of sparks. Behind them, the wendigo howls in agony, the impact of the flares pushing it backwards into the wall.

                “What—” Cas begins, as Dean squashes him into the wall. “What about the other one?”

                “There’s no such thing as a fair fight with wendigos,” Dean says, peering out into the black cave. “We have to take each one down together.”

                Without the glare of the flashlight, they scour the darkness for the telltale gleam of red eyes, fumbling to reload. The screams from the first wendigo cut out real quick—he doesn’t know if that’s because it’s dead, or stalking them again.

                There’s a sudden scuffle right outside their small aperture. Dean waits, stuffing his free hand over his mouth to silence his breathing.

                The red eyes appear, lightning fast, incredibly high above them. Dean feels an impossibly strong, brutal hand yank him forward at the same time that he hears the report of the gun behind him. He hits the ground hard, rolling out of the way, as he hears the wendigo shriek above them, blundering away. In the span of a second, the wendigo’s chest pulses with colors, and it slumps to the ground, its dying breath abruptly cutting short.

                “Dean,” Cas says. “Dean, are you okay?”

                “I’m fine,” Dean says. “Is there still another one?”

                “I don’t know,” Cas says. Dean feels a fumbling hand find his wrist, help pull him up. Cas’s breath sounds fast in his ear as they shuffle around the dead body. He twists his hand up and threads his fingers through Cas’s, their sweaty, grimy palms pressed together. Cas doesn’t pull away.

                A minute passes, maybe two.

                “Get the flashlight,” Dean finally whispers. “See if we can find two bodies.”

                Cas stoops, feeling around for the flashlight, and finally comes up with it. Their shadows loom on the wall as he casts it over their shoulders, around the entirety of the room. There’s only the body lying near their feet.

                “Fuck,” Dean says. “It could be anywhere.”

                “It’s probably mad we killed its…significant other,” Cas says.

                Dean snorts out a laugh. “Wendigos have significant others?”

                “They have something,” Cas says. “Dean, I used all my flares.”

                Dean looks down at his gun, his final flare. “Okay,” he says. “It’s fine. I just have to take the last shot.”

                Cas’s hand suddenly squeezes his tightly in warning, swinging his flashlight up to blind the wendigo that rushes them from the darkness. Dean doesn’t move, standing calmly in place until its mere feet away. The tip of the gun sinks into the creature’s chest as he fires.

                The wendigo blasts backwards, hitting the wall. It scrabbles at its chest, gargling, as the wall crumbles around him. Dean and Cas rush backwards into the nearest tunnel as the cave roof starts cracking apart, rocks as large as tires thudding down onto the wendigo.

                After a few moments, the noise dies down, except for the occasional skitter of rock. Dean and Cas looks at the large mound of rocks, and then back at each other.

                “Wow,” Dean says. “Cas—that was fuckin’ amazing. Wish we could have filmed that. Holy _shit_.”

                Cas looks like he’s starting to smile, about to reply, when the ceiling lets out another load, protesting groan.

                “We should go,” he says suddenly, in the voice he’d been using right up until the first wendigo appeared. He drops Dean’s hand, pockets his flare gun, and starts walking across the huge room.

                Dean feels his elated mood drop a little. “Come on, Cas. Seriously?”

                “Hunt’s over,” Cas says. He’s shining his flashlight into each aperture, trying to find the tunnel they came in. “Now we’re back to the real world.”

                Dean feels a sick drop in his stomach. Cas thinks they’re done now, that they should go their separate ways. The way he’s talking, it’s like he’s already gone. But Dean was planning on fixing everything with them as soon as this hunt was out of the way—he was planning on talking to Cas about sticking around for another hunt or two, getting to know each other, maybe even going out to dinner with him and Sam and Sam’s girlfriend. Maybe Dean doesn’t deserve it, but he wanted to make amends with Cas.

                “It doesn’t have to be—” Dean begins weakly, but he’s cut off as Cas finds the right tunnel.

                “Not now, okay? It’s not safe to be here.”

                They start walking down the tunnel together. After being in the huge, vaulted room, the tunnel seems tight, claustrophobic. Dean is getting sick of the way the flashlight beam bounces across the wall, the deep black at the edges of their vision. Out of some unspoken accord, they start walking faster. Soon, they’re half jogging, rounding corners, their breaths echoing in the small space around them.

                It’s only when they pass Hardy’s body, the last evidence of the cave’s grisly history, that they slow down again. Dean thinks he can almost feel the fresh air from outside, almost hear the soft sounds of the trees in the wind. His eyes strain in the dark, trying to pick out the entrance.

                “I think we’re almost there,” Cas says flatly. “Then we can go our separate ways.”

                Dean stops, so suddenly that Cas runs into him.

                “Cas, dammit. Can’t you just let me say my piece?”

                “You’ve already said plenty,” Cas says coldly.

                “I was wrong, okay? I mishandled the whole situation, because that’s what I do—”

                That’s when everything goes to shit. There’ s a sudden rumble, so loud and earth-shaking that Dean thinks they’re in the path of a train. He looks around wildly, and then there’s suddenly two hands pushing him forward so violently that his feet leave the ground, and his head bounces against the stone, and everything cuts to black.

**

                He wakes up slowly, groggy. His mouth feels like it’s coated in soft grit, and no matter how many times he blinks, he can’t see anything but black.

                That’s when he remembers—the cave, the wendigos, the sound like the earth cracking in two.

                He moves to push himself up and stops, hissing in pain. There’s something large and bulky—he’s guessing a rock—pinning his right leg to the ground. He already knows that it’s broken, or at least severely sprained. Now that he’s aware of the pain, it seems to spread, radiating out of his leg like fire.

                “ _Fuck_ ,” he gasps out. He tries to reach back, tries to shift the rock off, but he can’t. It’s too big, and he can’t reach it, and it weighs too damn much.

                “Cas?” He croaks out. “Cas, are you there?”

                There’s a long pause, and then the sound of some rocks skittering. The sound echoes too much to tell how close it is. “Yes,” Cas says shortly.

                “What the fuck,” Dean wheezes out. “Mount Rushmore is fucking sitting on my leg. Where are you? What happened to the flashlight?”

                “I think it’s broken,” Cas says finally.

                “Good idea,” Dean snarls. “Fantastic. It’s not like we needed that, in this pitch-black _cave_ , or anything—” He abruptly shuts himself up. He’s remembering now, too, the feeling of Cas’s hands sweeping him off his feet, throwing him forward into safety. “Cas, are you okay?”

                There’s another long silence. “No,” Cas says.

                Dean tries to twist around, but that alone makes him flop back to the ground, spasming in pain, and the cave’s too dark to see, anyhow. “What do you mean, _no_?” He demands. His voice is going up a little, hysterical.

                “I mean—Dean, can you reach your cell phone?” Cas says suddenly.

                “Yeah, I think,” Dean says. He’s able to worm his hand down between the ground and his hips, working into his pocket. He’s sweating by the time he works it out, but at least the pain has now settled into a dull throb. “I’ve got—one bar. I might be able to get a call out,” Dean says.

                “Okay,” Cas says. His voice sounds tight with tension. “Ellen said on the phone last night that Royce and Geordie are in Idaho. You should—” He stops suddenly, and Dean can hear his labored breaths. “You should call them,” Cas says quickly, all in one breath.

                “All right,” Dean says. “Okay. Hang on.” He dials Royce’s number, the phone blurring between his eyes. He can see that the battery’s low, flashing in warning.

                “Hello?” A voice says, broken with static.

                “Royce,” Dean says desperately. “I need your help. I’m—I’m in a cave at Cooper’s Point okay? Klamath, Oregon. Me and my partner are in big trouble.”

                “Dean, you’re cutting in and out—” Royce says, who sounds fuzzy himself. Dean wishes he was even a few inches closer to the cave entrance, but this is as good as reception as he’s gonna get.

                “Royce. Cooper’s Point. Help. Do you copy?”

                “Okay, Dean. We’re coming,” Royce says. “—on—way—coordinates?”

                The call beeps, ending.

                “Fuck,” Dean says. “Cas, I think they’re coming, but it won’t be for hours. Are you gonna be okay?”

                “Sure,” Cas says. But he doesn’t sound so okay.

                “Just tell me what’s going on, okay? Did you get hit by any rocks?”

                “Dean,” Cas says slowly. “I—I’m stuck.”

                “You’re stuck?”

                “Remember what happened to that last wendigo?” Cas says. “Same thing. I seem to have a—little pocket—but the rocks keep _shifting—”_ He stops suddenly, and Dean hears a muffled, pained sound. It makes his heart start hammering mercilessly.

                “One second, Cas,” he says. “Wait, okay?”

                He gets out his phone, battery still blinking to dead, and dials a new number.

                “Sam?” He says when he hears it pick up. “Sam, I need you to listen to me.”

                “Dean? I can’t hear you very well—what’s going on?”

                “Sam—Cas and I, we’re at Cooper’s Point. In a cave. I need you to come, Sam. We’re not looking so good.”

                “Cooper’s what? Dean, are you hurt?” Sam’s voice sounds panicked.

                “I’m fine. Point. Sam, I need you to come here _fast_.”

                “Dean, hang on ‘til I get there,” Sam says, and the line goes dead.

                Dean stares despairingly at his dying phone. Hours before anyone can get here, and his phone about to go on the putz. He tries to use the glow of his phone to illuminate behind him, see where Cas is, but in this darkness the light only showed back to his hip, the shadow of the huge rock pressing down on his knee.

                “Sam’s coming,” Dean says. “We’ll be okay, Cas. Don’t worry.”

                “I’m not,” Cas says.

                There’s a long silence. Dean slowly calms his breathing, forehead to the stone, until he feels like he can talk again.

                “Cas, I need you to talk to me. Did you get hit in the head?  What are your injuries?”

                Cas seems to deliberate answering him. When he does, his voice is curiously light. “I—Dean. When someone gets here—”

                “Sam.”

                “When Sam gets here, I want him to help free you and go. Don’t wait up for me, okay?”

                “What kind of self-sacrificing bullshit is that?”

                “The kind that doesn’t want the whole cave to collapse when you try to pull me out from the bottom of a wall of rocks,” Cas says, heated, and then breaks off. Dean can hear his gasping breaths.

                “It’ll be fine,” Dean says senselessly. “Sam can save us both.”

                “I don’t want him to,” Cas says softly.

                Dean sits up on his elbows, ignoring the sharp knife of pain that shoots up from his leg. “ _Don’t_ talk like that, dude. Not cool.”

                The other hunter doesn’t reply for a long while. Finally, he says, “You wouldn’t know, Dean. It’s different for you.”

                “ How different?” Dean says, challenging.

                “Your history, it’s one of being a hero. The tragic back story—the mom who dies, the dad obsessed with hunting, all culminating in a fight  to—to save the world. You’re—a _hero_. You’re absolved. You’re _good_.”

                “So?” Dean says, after another long break. _Come on, Sam. Please, come on._

 _“_ I wanted that for myself,” Cas says sadly. “But I don’t get that. In the history books—I’m the nobody. I’m the—collateral damage.”

                “Cas—”

                “Grigori—he possessed me. When I was nine. I had to watch while he—he slaughtered my whole family. With my hands. And I don’t get the heroic arc, Dean. I don’t get a redemption. I just get to live, and know—I can never make up for that.”

                “Cas,” Dean says again, softer.

                “I think I’m going to go to Hell,” Cas says. There’s a grumble of rocks, then, and Dean hears Cas let out a small, muffled sound, like he’s turning his head away so Dean can’t hear.

                “You’re not,” Dean says. “I swear you’re not. It’s gonna be okay, Sam’s gonna get here—”

                “Why do you care?” Cas bursts out. “You’re the one who wanted me to _snuff it_ on this hunt, remember?”

                Dean squeezes his eyes shut, jerking beneath the heavy weight of the rock. Right now, he’d give anything for something to happen—for Sam to come, to be able to lift this boulder off, to take Cas’s place.

                “I didn’t mean it,” Dean whispers. “I’m sorry. Cas, I’m so sorry, when this is all done—”

                Cas lets out an explosive breath, catching in his throat. Dean can hear the whine in his breathing now, can only imagine how the rocks are slowly pressing down on him, crushing the life out of Cas, while he listens. _Cas isn’t going to Hell. **This** is Hell. _

_“_ I’m fine, it’s okay,” Cas babbles out quickly. “Let’s—let’s talk about something else.”

                “Okay,” Dean says. “When this all over, when we’re finally out of this fuckin’ cave, we’re gonna go the hospital and get fixed up. And we’ll get beds right next to each other, and eat Jello—”

                “Dean,” Cas says, in a pitying voice. “I’m not—”

                “It’s make-believe,” Dean says. “Sam and I used to do it. Anything you want to happen, can happen. Do you trust me?”

                Cas barks out a cough. “Yeah.”

                “Okay,” Dean says. “Okay. Once we’re out, and all stitched together, we’ll swing by Berkeley. Sam will be on summer break, so he can hit the road with us.”

                “Who’ll sit in the passenger seat?” Cas whispers.

                “You’ll take turns,” Dean says. “And—oh, the Impala will be fixed up. Good as new. And, and—we’ll go on a road trip. We’ll go the Grand Canyon, since you’ve never been. And we’ll stop at every diner along the way, and you can try all the different pie flavors.”

                “Okay,” Cas says, wheezing a little as the rocks shift again.

                “And at night, we’ll book separate motel rooms from Sam so I can kiss you stupid on your fucking travel pillow.”

                “I’d like that.”

                “Yeah, me too. And we’ll get to the Grand Canyon just in time for the sunset. Sam will want to take pictures. I’ll want to crack open some beers for us all. You’ll—”

                “I’ll tell a joke that will make you both laugh,” Cas says thickly. He sounds like he’s talking underwater, his words choked with blood.

                “Yeah,” Dean says. He has to pause a long moment to collect himself. “That’s great, Cas. And we’ll sit together on the hood and drink while the stars come out.”

                “Hmm,” Cas says.

                “Sounds perfect,” Dean says desperately. “Is there anything else you want to add—Cas?”

                But Cas doesn’t answer.

                “Hey, Cas,” he says. “ _Cas!”_

There’s nothing at all, just the sound of his panting breaths and the groans of the rocks settling into place.

                “Cas, goddammit,” Dean shouts. He tries to twist back towards Cas, but he can’t pull himself away from the boulder, no matter how hard he tries. “Cas, _please!”_

                “Sam!” He shouts towards the cave entrance. His voice is cracking. “Sam, are you there? Sam? Anyone?”

                But there’s no sound there, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, yes, the oh-so-clever reason for naming this "Rockfall" comes to light. On a scale of 1 to Swan Song, feel free to share your emotions.  
> Ahhh. So I'm going on a short vacation--visiting my future grad school! :)--for the rest of the week and won't have time to write. So either enjoy the quick update or hate the fact that Chapter 9 won't be up for some time.  
> Thanks to all! Please don't cry.  
> Next chapter: Dean's never liked hospitals. Sam helps him make some decisions  
> Next, next chapter: Dean's on the trip of his life.


	9. Talus

Lilith had wrapped herself in Dean’s body, her black smoke had curled through his veins. Clothed like this, she taunted Sam. If you want him to die painlessly, she said, you’ll kill me. I’m in the plumbing now. I’ll shatter his bones, one by one.

                So the plan was blown to shit. And Dean was shoved in some small, squished corner of his body, ungraciously herded into his mind’s broom closet, and he could only stare out at the hatred in Sam’s expressions, the twitch in his hands. Sam had promised, he had _sworn_ , that he wouldn’t use his powers anymore. No more demon blood. No more demons. They had known, going in, that Lilith was the final seal. (The subject was painful, as was the methods of getting it out of Ruby). They had agreed—they couldn’t kill her. Trap her, maim her, whatever it took—whatever it took short of killing.

                But that was then, before Lilith snapped two of Dean’s fingers like wish bones, just to show how much she meant business. And Sam, wavering in the face of this new threat, trembling in anger, started gathering power in his fingers like thunderclouds.

                “That’s right, Sammy,” Lilith said in Dean’s voice. “You know you’re doing the right thing.”

                So this is how it ends, Dean had thought.

                Except Dean hadn’t remembered, as Sam had, that Lilith wasn’t _just_ a demon anymore. How else could she have the monsters of the world, the ghouls and ghosts and witches and werewolves, following her every command? Promising Hell on Earth under Lucifer wasn’t quite the truth. There still had to be a hierarchy, and demons were carving out their place on the top already.

                So Lilith had used old magic, magic that even Bobby had never heard of, and in that way she had bound herself—queen of everything, at least until Lucifer was resurrected. She made herself Alpha. She sacrificed their leaders—vampire, djinn, werewolf—and took over their power for them, as demons are fond of doing. And, as Alpha, their kind had to listen to her.

                What Dean didn’t think of, what Lilith didn’t think of, is that making herself into some bastardized version of these creatures made her vulnerable in the same ways.

                “See you on the other side,” Dean/Lilith had said, as Sam opened his clenched fist and concentrated all his power on them. Did he have enough power, left over from Ruby’s blood, to accomplish what Lilith wanted him to do?

                Not to kill, though. From his palm sprang the syringe, straight and true, too fast to stop. It plunged deep into their neck, and Lilith screamed with Dean’s voice as the dead man’s blood raced through their veins, deadening, constricting.

                They looked up at Sam’s triumphant face as Dean’s body sunk, spasming, to the floor.

                “You underestimated me,” Sam had said, and Dean couldn’t tell which one of them he was talking to.

                And so much would happen in the following  months—Dean hardly able to use his broken hand, and Sam covertly planning for school, and the invisible tidal wave effect that ripped through monster-kind, as their one-time Alpha relinquished her power. And in between all that, what was left of Lilith,  her pulsing black smoke, was poured into a silver capsule, painted inside and out in demon traps, and dipped in dead man’s blood, encased in a block of concrete, chained in iron, and Bobby gave it to Rufus who kicked it off the back of his boat somewhere in the Pacific.

                And so the Apocalypse became the Apocalypse that never was. The Winchesters had saved the world. But Dean, thinking back, can only think of how useless he was at the critical moment. Helpless, vulnerable, not in control. It was Sam who saved the world.

                Sam, even after Ruby and his addiction and his brief dalliance with his dark powers. It was Sam who was a hero, who was absolved, who was _good_.

                “Hey,” Sam says. “You still with me?”

                Dean looks up, blinking, and his surroundings swirl back into focus again. There’s the blank white walls of the hospital room, and Sam looming over him, and his concerned face, as he gives Dean the cup of ice cubes he’d requested earlier.

                “Yeah, sorry,” Dean grunts. He fishes an ice cube out, crunching it obnoxiously between his teeth. “Anything change?”

                “Stone-walled,” Sam says. He sits down by Dean’s bed. “Plus, they already know I’m here with you. Can’t exactly change into my FBI get-up all of a sudden.”

                “Makes sense,” Dean says. He shifts, wincing as his leg throbs. “Thanks, you know. For, uh—” He gestures at their surroundings.

                “Of course,” Sam says. His eyes, beneath the bandage swathed around his forehead, are earnest. “Whenever you need me, for however long. You know that.”

                “Yeah,” Dean says. “I do now. Sorry for not—you know. Before.”

                “It’s okay,” Sam says easily. And so it is.

                They sit in silence a few minutes more, silence except for the sounds of ice cracking between Dean’s teeth. He feels itchy, restless, but doesn’t know what to do to make the feeling go away. Everything’s kinda out of his hands now.

                “So,” Sam says, meaningfully. “You and Cas, huh?”

                Dean shoots him a look, then puts his paper cup aside. “Yeah, what of it?”

                “Nothing,” Sam says. “I really like Cas. It sucks what happened to him. Are you doing okay?”

                “Dandy,” Dean replies, but Sam doesn’t deserve that response, not after everything he’s done for them in the past two days. “You know. I’m just fucking—sitting here. I hate it. I hate not knowing.”

                He’ s not being articulate; he can feel his frustration building. But Sam seems to understand, like he always does.

                “Remember the Apocalypse?” Dean asks suddenly.

                “Yeah,” Sam says.

                “Remember that day with Lilith? How it all ended?”

                “Yeah?” Sam says. He looks confused.

                “I have nightmares about it,” Dean says. “Even now. And after it was all done, I drove myself crazy, thinking about all the ways it could have gone wrong, because I was dumb enough to get caught by Lilith. I kept thinking about how useless I was. And when you decided to leave, that cemented it. I wasn’t good enough; I’d failed at the critical moment.”

                “Dean,” his brother says. “Don’t think that. All through that—with Ruby, with the hunting by yourself. _You_ were the one who kept it all together—”

                “But that’s exactly it,” Dean says, trying to push himself up further on the pillows. “I’m sick of us always thinking we’re not good enough. It’s like the hunter motto—I could have done this, if only I had done that. I needed you around to—to prove I was _worth_ something.”

                He holds Sam’s gaze for a long moment.

                “I think it’s good that we got away from that. You were right to go to college. You went for the right reasons—you went for yourself.”’

                “Thanks,” Sam says, in a small voice.

                “I should have seen the signs with Cas,” Dean says. “He had to fucking throw himself under a cave-in for me to finally get it.”

                “Get—what?”

                “Mr. Skynyrd?” That’s the nurse at the doorway, looking between them. “The patient that came in with you—he can see visitors now.”

                “Coming,” Dean says immediately.

                The nurse brings in a wheelchair, and she and Sam help to get Dean out of bed, careful to avoid bumping his right leg, bulky with a cast. He nods goodbye to Sam as he’s wheeled out the door, up two flights in the elevator, and down a hallway.

                Dean waves her away and wheels in himself, looking over at the bed hungrily.

                Cas is there, looking half-awake and groggy, his hair matted and still slightly gray from grit and dust. He’s wearing a white hospital gown, a bare palette that contrasts with his pale, drawn face and then his left arm and his clavicle, poking through the gown, which are blotched with bruises, marred with scrapes and cuts. His other arm is swathed in bandages, tightly bound across his chest.

                “Hey, Miracle Man,” Dean says. He rolls himself forward, eyes away as he concentrates on maneuvering the chair as close as possible to the  bed. It’s difficult with his leg. He eventually figures out how to parallel park, and looks up victoriously at Cas.

                “You feeling okay?” Dean asks. He can’t contain his grin.

                “I think so,” Cas says. His voice is hoarse, almost painful to listen to, especially as it brings back memories of Cas’s fading voice, the dark cave, the lifeline of words Dean gave…the littlest he could do to alleviate the pain—   “I can’t say I feel much of anything right now.”

                “You’re getting all the good meds,” Dean informs him. “How bad is it?”

                “Seven ribs,” Cas says, nodding down at his chest. “A punctured lung. And a broken shoulder—” He tilts his head to his bandaged arm. “I’m afraid to even cough.”

                “Yeah,” Dean says. “You look pretty rough.” The words are strange, coming distorted through his smile, but he can’t help it. Better looking pretty rough than pretty dead.

                Cas lolls his head back in Dean’s direction. He stares for a long moment, and Dean’s about to declare him down for the count, when Cas’s eyes meet Dean’s with surprising lucidity. “How’d you get me out?”

                “It wasn’t me,” Dean says. “It was Sammy. Fuck, he’s bright. Royce and Geordie were closer, you know. But Sam sped up here, faked an FBI call to the rental company, got our coordinates from the car GPS. Found out trail, even thought to bring a flashlight…”

                “Smart,” Cas grates out, agreeing.

                “I wasn’t—I wasn’t in the best place when he found us,” Dean says. Understatement. He’d been screaming himself hoarse in the dark cave, tormented by his desperate voice echoing back at him. Pleading with Cas. Too much time to think on Cas and his wracked confessions, too much time to ponder the significance of a man who didn’t like not being in control, or being vulnerable—not after being possessed, his hands forced, by Grigori—but trying to change for Dean. In the dark, it was so easy to picture Cas’s pierced body, the ribs collapsing like matchsticks, the blood sliding out through a silent mouth. “He was able to lever the rock off me. It was a bit more work to get you free—Sammy got clunked in the head. They kept him last night for observation.”

                “He shouldn’t—”

                “Too late,” Dean said brightly. “After that, it was a three-legged race out of the cave, trying to hold you between us. Sam was driving all across the road, too dizzy to see, and you were being held together with luck and an ACE bandage—”

                He stops suddenly, throat closing up. He doesn’t want to go into that night, long hours where blank faces and professional medical lingo (internal bleeding, too soon to say) had all added up to the same thing—they weren’t sure if Cas would survive until morning. He doesn’t want to talk about staring at the ceiling in his hospital bed, small and pitiful, while Sam tried to talk bracing words of comfort, too hollow. They’d both seen the condition Cas came in. “Why don’t you just never do that again, okay?”

                Cas’s eyes slide away, guilty. “Dean,” he croaks. “The things I said in there—it’s not like I planned to go that way. It’s not like I was _trying_ \--”

                “Hey,” Dean says. He doesn’t know what’s a good place to touch on Cas’s bruised, scraped body. He settles for the lightest touch on his hand, his pinky grazing against Cas’s. “You don’t have to say anything. I know. You—you fucking saved my life. That kind of thing, I can’t repay—”

                “I didn’t do it so you’d owe me anything,” Cas says, defensively.

                “No, I know,” Dean says. “I do. You were acting—you know. Like my partner.”

                The other man doesn’t say anything.

                “Cas,” Dean says, all in a rush. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot, okay? The sex, the drinking—that was you trying to be like one of my vices, right? Because you didn’t think you could be anything else to  me.”

                Cas swallows, still looking away.

                “And then when you wanted to be more, I shot you down. And I’m sorry, I am, for adding to anything that you felt—” He stops himself, recognizing the dangerous territory. For all of Cas’s careful removal, his attitude of uncaring, Dean knows better. Cas could remember the things Dean and others have said to him, about him, and he could be hurt by them. He could add them to some internal tally, weighing whether or not he was worth enough. Dean knows. He’s done that, too.

                “It’s okay,” Cas says, after a long moment.

                “It’s not,” Dean says. “But it’s something we can work on, okay? You’re not so alone. And Sam will be here, too, and he’s gone through the same shit. And then, once we’re all healed up, us partners can hit the road again.”

                He’s not exactly expecting a wide grin or a fist pump—neither does he deserve one. But he doesn’t expect Cas’s head to dip further into his chest, either. “Okay,” Cas says. “I hope we’ll see each other again, sometime.”

                “What?” Dean says flatly.

                Cas drags his eyes up. “You and Sam,” he says. “I wish you both well.”

                “What the fuck about me and Sam?”

                Cas retrieves his familiar irritated look. “You’re partners,” he says. “You just said, once you both get better, you’ll hit—“

                “I was talking about you and me,” Dean says, indignant. “We’re partners, okay?” He backtracks. “I mean, if you still want to be—”

                “But you,” Cas says slowly. “You said Sam has a concussion. I thought you meant Sam.”

                “I didn’t,” Dean says. “Besides, Sam’s fine. His head was harder than the rock that hit it. I meant _you_. If you’ll have me—which sounds like a proposal—but, you know, Sam as good as gave us his blessing—”

                “Oh,” Cas says. Dean doesn’t know what to make of the expression on his face.

                “It’s not because I want you around to throw yourself onto grenades for me,” Dean says hurriedly. “I just want you around, period. Even before—before the wendigos, I knew that. I fucked that up.” He twists his hand around, linking his fingers through Cas’s. “I’m not some big damn hero, Cas. I don’t want you to think of me that way. We’re both good enough for each other.”

                “Good enough,” Cas says. He’s starting to smile.

                “You’re more than good enough, Cas,” Dean says. “I’m sorry I ever made you think otherwise. We can help each other, we can support each other, we know all about the shitty—the shitty shit that hunters go through.”

                “The shitty shit,” Cas repeats, nodding.

                “Shut up,” Dean says. “I’m trying to make a speech here. Cas. Castiel. Half the time we’re fucked up six ways to Sunday, our job is killing monsters, I’m too trigger-happy and you have no social skills. It doesn’t matter, okay? It won’t, as long as we’re there for each other. You’re a _good_ man, Cas, whether you’re with me or not. I’ll keep saying it ‘til you know it’s true.”

                “You are too, Dean,” Cas says. His eyes are bright and soft.

                “Okay,” Dean says. He feels like he should say something else, something more grandiose and important, to suit the occasion.  “Uh, neat.”

                Fuck it.  He leans over the edge of the wheelchair, the arm digging painfully into his side. Cas can do little more than loll his head to the side. Dean stretches as far as he can and places a light, timid kiss on Cas’s mouth. When he pulls back, Cas makes a disappointed noise and tries to follow him, sucking on Dean’s bottom lip, drawing the moment out.

                If only Cas wasn’t a human pincushion—Dean wishes the bed was big enough for two.

                “Looks like we’re hunter-married,” Dean says. He hears a noise at the doorway—it’s Sam, looking surprised and pleased. “We just need some Jello to kick things off, eh?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daww. Like I could really kill my peach pie honey bear!  
> If any of you thought I was taking some pleasure in reading responses to last chapter, you wouldn't be wrong. The power of angst in this fiction has truly turned me from a hobby writer to a Real Woman.  
> Thanks to everyone who has stuck with this work!  
> Next chapter: Sometimes make-believe does come true. 
> 
> And that is that.


	10. A Grand Canyon

EPILOGUE: THREE MONTHS LATER

                The alarm goes off after the requisite four hours.

                The lump next to Dean grumbles under the covers, tries to shift away. Dean doesn’t blame him. They’d driven the whole day before, crashed at the motel, and now there’s another full day’s drive in front of them.

                “Yo, Dudley Do-right,” Dean whispers. “Mount up.”

                Silence.

                “Cas, the sun is shining, the birds are singing, _I’m_ in bed with you,” Dean says, pulling at the covers. “What’s better than this?”

                “Sleeping,” Cas says, as grumpy as he can in his sleep-wrecked voice.                                 

                Dean drags the blankets down, smiling down at Cas’s stormy expression.

                “Ah, _there_ he is,” he says brightly.

                “I can kill you forty different ways with a blade. Easy,” Cas says.

                “Kinky,” Dean says. His thumbs travel up Cas’s shirt, dragging the material up so he can see the hard lines of Cas’s hipbones. “ _You’re_ the one who wanted me to set the alarm a little early, remember?”

                Dean ends up sitting against the head board, the green travel pillow painstakingly wedged behind his head by Cas, who does this with a sleepy, careful concentration before he slides his leg over both of Dean’s. Cas sits in his lap, leans forward against Dean’s chest, and Dean enjoys his heavy, warm weight, his relaxed breaths against his neck, as he fumbles for the lube and slides a finger slowly into Cas.

                It’s been a while, a long time since he’s had this kind of familiarity with someone else. He knows when to work another finger in, knows all he has to do is gently circle the rim to make Cas’s breath catch in his throat. He knows by the impatient movement of Cas’s hips when to draw his fingers out, to grip Cas close and lift him up, gently coaxing him closer as he slides in.

                “ _Dean_ ,” Cas says, sinking all the way down. His head is still tipped against Dean’s shoulder, his breath fast and eager, reveling in the fullness.

                So it’s been a while since Dean’s had this. He’s glad he has it again, because he can’t remember the last time everything felt so warm and close and right and _good_ , with Cas’s sleep-gravelled voice groaning in his ear, and his legs tight and trembling around him, and his hands gripping Dean’s biceps for balance as he works himself up and down, over him. It works this way—Dean’s leg rested and still, and no pressure put on Cas’s shoulder or chest. Dean thinks it works _perfectly_.

                “Yeah, Cas, fuck,” Dean gasps out, hips bucking up with Cas’s movements. His hands smooth down over Cas’s back, a familiar route, over the lines of scars and stitches, new and old. He traces the rough line of stitches on Cas’s newly-healed scapula, the made-anew ribs that protect the heart of this man, this good man, his partner.

                His hands slide down further, squeezing and separating his cheeks, just so he can listen to the way Cas moans, pressing panting kisses to his neck, his movements becoming more erratic. Fuck, that’s perfect, feeling his fingers graze that intimate space where they’re joined—he works a finger in, sliding into that heat in tandem, and the stretch makes Cas keen, scrabbling at his shoulders.

                 Already he can feel the slick rub of Cas’s cock between their bellies, hear the quickening thrusts into Cas, but he doesn’t want it to end just yet. He pulls Cas’s hips down flush against him, stilling him.

                “What?” Cas says.

                “Nothing,” Dean mumbles. “Feels so fuckin’ good.”

                Cas pants against his cheek a moment, and then slowly starts up again, hips gently rocking, unhurried. Dean’s watching, staring as Cas tips his head back in pleasure, the long lines of him, so he isn’t even aware of the sounds he’s making until Cas slaps a hand over his mouth.

                “Your brother’s in the next room,” Cas breathes out. Cas’s hand just gives him more incentive to make noise, though. He curses and gasps and groans through Cas’s fingers as they move faster together, and Dean thrusts up four times, five, at just the right angle, and Cas gasps, locks up all around him and comes in the tight press between their bellies. Dean loves that—how surprised and pleased and caught off-guard Cas seems, every time.

                Dean follows, in a disorienting diamond-bright haze, arching up into Cas’s welcoming heat. He pins Cas’s hand closer to his mouth with both of his, sucking desperate kisses on Cas’s sweaty palm until he’s finished. After a while, Cas dazedly lifts his head and pulls his hand free.

                “What kind of sex was that?” He says.

                “I think it’s going-to-the-Grand-Canyon-today sex,” Dean decides. He loops a hand around Cas’s neck, draws him down for a long, deep kiss, and lifts him off his spent cock.

                “We had that yesterday,” Cas says, sliding bonelessly back into the covers again.

                “That was on-our-way-to-the-Grand-Canyon sex,” Dean corrects. He shoves the covers back off Cas again. “Come on, we’re showering.”

                Sam meets them out in the parking lot; they’re still wet-haired and ruddy-skinned from the hot water. He lifts his eyebrows, but says nothing.

                Cas sleeps in the backseat on the way there. He’s still sleeping a lot, really, even though they were sure to note all the exercises the physical therapist recommended him before they snuck away from the hospital in the night. The exercises can make him sore, so he sleeps. The occasional twinges of pain can weaken him, so he sleeps. Dean’s sure what they did this morning can also contribute to Cas sleeping.

                Dean thinks to himself, defensively, that that hasn’t been _all_ they’ve been doing—sex and exercises (sometimes combined). He and Cas have covered a lot of territory together, and being cooped up on bed rest, immobile, for weeks certainly helped. They talked to pass the time. Sam was in and out, too, helping to set them up in a flat near enough that he could bring by groceries or drive them places. He would bring Cas stacks of books from the library; Dean—full seasons of Doctor Sexy. For some reason, the library didn’t have those on wait list.

                And between all that, they’ve been making themselves grooves in each other’s lives. Cas has already made such a presence for himself, has proven himself reliable and sturdy and solid. Dean, who remembers the the feeling of Cas's hands on his shoulders, pushing him to safety, knows he can depend on him, and talk to him, and he has. Dean know there are ways he can help Cas, too—him, having been possessed before; having thought the same bad things about himself that Cas had confessed to that night in the cave. Cas tells him about losing his whole family at nine, waking up disoriented, with blood on his hands, tears tracking his cheeks before he even remembered what he was crying for. How he burned his house down, that house lost alone in the maple trees, and learned everything for himself. How he learned the necessities: learned how to shoot a gun, patch himself up, carve straight to the heart with a knife--and discarded all the rest. There was never time in his life then for pleasant small talk, or niceness, or friends. And all along, all alone, he was hunting Grigori, a hunt that took him over two decades, to two countries, and finally here, to Dean. 

                That’s really all a person needs in the world—someone to trust, someone to count on unequivocally. Someone there, by your side. They have found that, now. They haven’t been changing themselves for each other, but they have made good changes, nonetheless.

                Sam, on his summer break, is way too talkative for someone at eight in the morning. He already wants to plan a vacation with them for next summer. He’s hinting that he wants them to stop back in California over Thanksgiving. He mentions that Casey’s an old hand at pumpkin pies. He casually throws out the idea of Bobby coming, too—a real family holiday.

                “Ever even prepared a turkey?” Dean asks.

                “No,” Sam says, unflappable. “We could figure it out together. At least we know we’re more than capable of hunting ourselves one.”

                Dean’s not sure what he’ll be doing on Thanksgiving break next year. The closest thing he has had “for sure” in his mind is the date when he thinks he and Cas will be ready to jump back into the hunting gig—maybe another month or two.  They’ve been waiting until they’re both one hundred percent. Soon, after Sam’s break is over and he’s back at Berkeley, they’ll probably be strong enough. Even so, it’s strange to have definite plans. Strange, but not bad.

                And the idea of him and Sam as novices, elbow-deep in turkey and plucking feathers—Sam would probably need a hairnet—makes him grin.

                Sam’s interrupted a little while later by Casey, calling to see how the trip’s going. Dean half-listens, watching the road, watching Cas’s draped limbs in the rearview mirror.

                “Say hi to your mom for me—” Sam says.

                “Send your love to the garbage disposal,” Dean says loudly, and earns himself an elbow in the ribs.

                They stop at a gas station, they stop at a diner to eat. Finally, around six, signs start popping up, telling them their destination is near.

                The Impala rumbles up to an empty look-out point, just as the sun is bearing down upon the edge of the canyons. Sam immediately jumps out and groans, stretching out his legs.

                “Next time, we’re flying.”

                “Yeah fucking right,” Dean says. He rounds the car and gently eases the back door open, making sure Cas, who’s propped up against it, doesn’t fall backwards.

                “Hey, we’re here,”  he says. “Are you feeling okay? Any pain?”

                Sam snorts somewhere behind him, but Cas’s look as he wakes up _this_ time is warm and just for him. “Just a little stiff,” he says. Dean helps ease him out of the car, noticing how Cas winces a bit, working his shoulder.

                Dean leans close over him, massaging the muscle. “I’ve got some pain meds in the glove compartment,” he says. “Do you want one?”

                “I just slept on it strange—”

                “Hey, lovebirds,” Sam calls. “You’re missing it all—the sun’s setting, I could have fallen off the edge for all you care—”

                “That’s why practicing the buddy system is important,” Cas says. Sam lets out a good-natured peal of laughter, and the fact that Cas probably said that in earnest makes Dean laugh, too. Cas seems surprised by the reaction, but pleased. He glances between the two and beams.

                “Yeah, okay,” Sam says. “Cas, come on. Check it out.”

                Cas trots obediently off, and Dean watches as Sam leans his elbow on Cas’s healthy shoulder in a casual manner, using his other arm to gesticulate across the canyon somewhere. Probably knows something about the geography or the history or something nerdy that he knows Cas would like hear.

                Dean goes to the trunk, unlocking it, shaking his head. He never thought this would be his life. His brother in law school again, planning road trips for the summers. A person by his side everyday who is _not_ his brother, who is something else entirely. And it’s strange for hunters, normally so gritty, world-weary and brusque, to do what they’re doing—taking things slow and tender and sweet, holding hands and—and making love, Dean thinks, darting a glance over to the pair, glad to see they’re still occupied. That’s strange, too, but that’s what he’s doing with Cas.

                And it should scare him shitless—what’s coming up in his future. He’s guaranteed maybe two more years of hunting, three at the max, before monster-kind is really and realistically wiped away. After that, he’s expected to move on, leave the old life behind. Find a civilian job. Settle down, get a dog, paint a picket fence—everything he never wanted to live to see, sure a fuck-up like him couldn’t  manage. But somehow, thinking of this great unknown, knowing Cas will be with him through it all, it doesn’t worry him. It gives him a feeling that he hasn’t had in a long time, a feeling like hope.

                He’s about to grab the beer but Cas turns, calls him over, warns him he’s about to miss it.

                Dean sidles up and joins them, and they stand in a line together, watching the sky streaked with colors, the changing hues and tones that the landscape takes on before them—the violet dips of the canyon, the ruddy colors of the rocks above.

                “This sure is some view,” Sam says. He’s lifting his camera to his face, but he puts it down again, his face thoughtful. “It never gets old, does it?”

                “It’s beautiful,” says Cas, his voice reverent.

                “It is,” Dean says. He’s not looking at the Canyon, though—he’s looking at his brother and his partner, their faces open and childlike in wonder, bathed gold in sunlight. He’s looking at all the wide open space that surrounds them, all those possibilities.

                He links his hand with Cas’s. “It really is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, we have made it friends.  
> 1) I just realized this fic was basically the Sex Olympics. I apologize/you're welcome.  
> 2) What could have been--in the spirit of full disclosure, after chapter 8 I read my next, next chapters and for half a second envisioned a completely different story. Dean has to decide to take Cas off life support in chapter 9. He takes a trip to the Grand Canyon afterwards in memory of him, and does everything he promised Cas he would do with him (is that a Hilary Swank movie?). For that wild half-second it was the most tragic story to ever tragic. IT WAS JUST FOR A HALF-SECOND. And then I wrote the happy ending I'd been planning all along. I think all that angsty power went straight to my head.  
> 3) I am, most unfortunately, already working on a new story. Tentative update next week? I need to stop getting ideas because then I am compelled to write until I finish them!  
> 4)Exactly 100 kudos happy dance! Thank you, everyone!  
> 5)You all rock. Thanks to everyone, and especially to the lovely sonicquill, mycolour, cherrywine, and wahtah. Loved always hearing feedback!

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again, lovelies!  
> So this is definitely more canon-based, with the main divergence being that Dean was able to get out of his hell deal, and Lilith was able to start breaking seals without needing a Righteous Man to kickstart it. Castiel was never an angel!  
> I loved my babes in SOH, but some differences--they are in the gritty hunter world, so they're not quite as clean-cut. also, this slow build will be remarkably fast compared to THAT work.  
> Thanks to everyone for reading and commenting on my last work! Hope to hear more from you guys :)
> 
> I have a tumblr now! paperclothesline.tumblr.com


End file.
